


Ted's Got Talent

by eureka1



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Could Be Canon, Drama, Family, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-05 12:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eureka1/pseuds/eureka1
Summary: Ted’s a bona fide financial wizard, but what other talents is he hiding? Brian and Justin are about to find out just what lengths he’ll go to, to get them back together . . .





	1. Setting the Stage

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by my dear half brain, the brilliant Alois! This story simply wouldn't exist without her help.
> 
> Banner by the amazing samcdee, my banner queen!
> 
> This four-chapter story is complete. I will be posting one chapter a week on Saturdays.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

 _**Kinnetik,** _ **_Brian’s office, 10 January 2008, 1:15 p.m._**

 

“Goddammit, Schmidt, I already told you no,” an exasperated Brian emphatically declares, wadding up Ted’s leave request and lobbing it into the wastebasket.

 

Ted follows the trajectory of the paper ball with a crestfallen look on his face, before shifting nervously and clearing his throat. How can he convince Brian without explaining why he needs the time off? he debates. This is too important to simply give up. “Uh, Brian, it’s just for two days,” he tries to change his boss’ mind. “Really, just one workday,” he rushes to get out as Brian’s countenance turns ever darker.

 

“Theodore, we’re insanely busy with the Super Bowl coming up on the third of February - as you well know,” Brian sternly reprimands his recalcitrant employee. “Every single one of our big clients wants to target the viewing audience in some way - via television commercial, magazine ad, newspaper ad, Internet ad - or all of those. Right now, Saturday and Sunday are as much workdays as any other fucking day of the week.”

 

Buck up, Ted admonishes himself, but it’s hard to follow his own advice. Almost five years since he started working for Brian, and he sometimes still finds it difficult to stand up to the man, despite knowing he is nearly indispensable as Kinnetik’s CFO. Brian has become a good friend during those years, but he can nevertheless be as intimidating as all get out. Squaring his shoulders, Ted forces himself to declare in a steady voice. “I’m taking those two days, Brian. I think I’ve more than earned them.”

 

Quirking an eyebrow, Brian threatens, “Do I need to fire you again, Theodore?” As he speaks, Brian’s conscience twinges slightly since he intends to go to a planning conference for the upcoming White Party in Palm Springs over those same days. While he will be pushing Kinnetik as the advertising firm to promote the party, he’ll also be fucking every passably good-looking fag that crosses his path.

 

That’s fair, though, as far as the advertising executive is concerned. It isn’t as if Ted would take proper advantage of the same opportunity. He and Blake are so in love that it is absolutely sickening. Brian feels like he is hip deep in nauseatingly lovey-dovey, hetero-imitation couples and desperately wants a break from all this crapola. Thank fuck for Emmett, he reflects. Who would have ever thought he’d be grateful for the nelly queen’s friendship? At least the man still has a life and enjoys hitting the clubs, unlike the rest of Brian’s friends. They prefer to stay at home, watch movies, and knit baby booties - for all he can tell.

 

Brian regrets glancing up at his CFO, who is sporting a dejected expression that makes him look like a bizarre cross between a basset hound and a llama. Christ, he’ll have to throw Ted some kind of bone so he won’t wander around with that hangdog look, spreading doom and gloom throughout the building. “I tell you what, Theodore,” he proposes, “Leo Brown wants a new campaign for his products. Rather than going myself, I’ll send you to Chicago for the meetings I’ve arranged on those days.” Ted doesn’t need to know that Brian has been planning all along to send his CFO to represent Kinnetik.

 

Ted stares at Brian slack-jawed. “Chi . . . Chicago?” he stutters.

 

“Are you getting hard of hearing in your old age?” Brian snarks. He immediately rues mocking his friend, since he isn’t that many years behind the older man. If Ted dares mention that, he’ll have to hand him his walking papers.

 

“Uh, no. No,” Ted reiterates with a bit more self-assurance, attempting to look suave, as Brian would do if he were in Ted’s shoes. The financial wizard has to fight off an incipient headache, since it is even more impossible to imagine Brian as Ted than to picture himself as Brian. He endeavors to appear begrudging as he replies, “Okay. Okay, I’ll do my part for the firm, Brian.” Tugging on the lapel of his jacket and then smoothing back his hair, he insists, “I’ll still want those days off, you know. As soon as possible.”

 

Brian gazes at Ted more respectfully now that the man is showing a bit more spine and, above all, because he’s deftly avoided calling Brian _old_. “And you can have that vacation, Theodore, once things slow down.”

 

“Well,” Ted offers with a wide grin and a philosophical shrug - motions that are easy to produce now that he knows he’ll be in the Windy City at exactly the right time - “at least Kinnetik’s easily weathering the recession.”

 

A satisfied grin spreads across Brian’s face in return. Over the last few years, Kinnetik has become more successful than he could have envisioned, acquiring major national accounts and even a couple of international ones. He shunts aside the niggling thought that while he is unquestionably thriving professionally, he is more than a little lonely personally. “We definitely want that trend to continue, so let’s keep Leo happy,” he urges.

 

“Absolutely, Brian,” Ted reassures his boss, his head bobbing up and down frantically - completely destroying his effort to be suave.

 

“If you can believe it, Brown finally wants to upgrade his firm’s image so that they look gay-friendly.” Brian snorts.

 

“Really? Hasn’t he always insisted on family-friendly campaigns?” Ted remarks, making air quotes as he spits out the words _family friendly_.

 

“Rumor from Brown Athletics indicates Leo’s grandson is gay, and pressure from him apparently has Leo rethinking matters. However, I still won’t be surprised if Brown goes all over conservative at the last minute.” Brian sardonically quips.

 

“Yeah,” Ted banters, “he’d be brilliant in an ad for Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

 

Chuckling wryly, Brian decrees, “We’ll prepare two campaigns just to be on the safe side. I’m going to light a fire under the art department, so they’ll start working on the boards right away.”

 

“Tell you what, boss,” Ted suggests, as if he’s doing Brian a favor, “why don’t I take point with the Brown Athletics campaign while you concentrate on the Bryce Motors and The Man’s Man accounts?” He’s certain the art department will be thankful if they can liaise with him rather than with Brian, especially now when they’re understaffed and overworked.

 

Brian does his best to hide his surprise. No question that his CFO is capable of handling the campaign by himself, Ted having become a fairly accomplished salesman in the past few years, but he’d have thought his friend would be too disappointed about his denied vacation to volunteer for this. Well, no point looking a gift horse - er, a gift Ted - in the mouth. He’ll be in Palm Springs soaking up the sun while Ted freezes in Chicago.

 

No need to make it seem like he’s eager to accept Ted’s proposal, though, especially since he’ll be stuck coming up with an ad to convince pathetic morons to buy The Man’s Man new line of tuxedo underwear. If you don’t have the right package, putting a bow tie over it isn’t going to help...

 

Pretending reluctance - just because he enjoys needling Ted - he prompts, “Well, if you’re sure you can handle it . . .”

 

“I’ll have Brown eating out of my hand,” Ted assures his boss.

 

“That doesn’t sound very hygienic,” Brian comments in disgust, “but I really don’t care as long as Leo signs on the dotted line.”

 

“No worries. He’ll sign.” Ted asserts with conviction. He barely chokes back a laugh at how the image of someone eating out of his hand repulses the adman, while fucking, sucking, and swapping spit are perfectly acceptable.

 

He’s brought out of his musings when Brian warns, “Don’t fuck it up, or-”

 

“I’m fired,” Ted finishes Brian’s sentence, rolling his eyes. As he sidles out of the office, he claims, “One of these days you’re going to get tired of firing me, boss.”

 

“That’s doubtful, Theodore,” Brian calls after his employee.

 

* * *

 

“What’s up with you?” Cynthia wonders suspiciously moments later, when she sees Ted heading away from Brian’s office with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t tell me Brian actually approved your leave request?”

 

Beaming at Kinnetik’s COO, Ted murmurs, “Uh-uh,” and then essays a few dance steps whilst singing, “Chicago, Chicago--that toddlin’ town.”

 

The blonde gazes at him in bemusement. Has the man lost his marbles? “Ted, are you okay?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm and turning him toward her.

 

“Never better,” Ted warbles, as it strikes him that he’s going to need an accomplice if he’s going to carry off his burgeoning plans. “Um, Cynthia, do you have a minute?” he questions, taking his colleague by the arm and leading her toward his office before she has a chance to respond.

 

“Geez, Ted, are you high?” Cynthia queries mock-seriously as she tries to tug her arm out of the man’s grasp.

 

“High on life!” Ted spouts the cheesy reply with a goofy smile. He’s bursting to share his news with someone, and who better than Cynthia? Over the years she’s become a good friend, one he sometimes uses as a sounding board.

 

When they reach his office, he gallantly motions for Cyn to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, before closing the door and sitting behind the desk. “How would you like to help me with the Brown Athletics account?” he grandly proposes.

 

“If I wouldn’t fall for an offer like that from Brian, what makes you think I’ll be duped by you?” the blonde inquires, her eyes narrowing in mistrust as she sits down and crosses her legs.

 

“I thought it couldn’t hurt to try,” Ted confesses, his eyes twinkling. At least he is in good company, since Brian can’t fool his former assistant either.

 

“Just tell me what you want.” Cynthia commands, one leg jiggling.

 

Placatingly holding up his hands, Ted promises, “Really, it’s nothing bad.” Unable to stop grinning, he explains, “Not knowing it’s exactly where I want to go on vacation, Brian has agreed to send me to Chicago in two weeks.”

 

“Are you demented? Why are you jonesing to go to Chicago? It’s going to be as miserably cold there as it is here in the Pitts. And the wind chill will be even worse since the city sits smack dab on Lake Michigan.” Cynthia looks askance at Kinnetik’s CFO, who is practically bouncing up and down in his seat for joy.

 

Ted leans forward over his desk and imparts, “I’m going to audition for _America’s Got Talent_. In Chicago. On the twenty-sixth of January.”

 

Cynthia looks at him blankly. She’s heard of the show, of course, even viewed a snippet or two on YouTube. But she’d rather curl up with the latest _Supernatural_ fanfic and a glass of Merlot than plunk herself down in front of the television on a Tuesday evening. This is clearly a big deal for her mild-mannered colleague, however, so she encourages Ted with, “Uh . . . that’s good?”

 

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Ted hurriedly requests. “I don’t want Brian to find out about this.”

 

“No worries, Ted.” Cynthia reassures her friend. “Be careful, though. Brian will be none too pleased if he finds out you aren’t focusing solely on Brown Athletics.”

 

“No shit,” Ted concurs, shuddering, before he proclaims, “But with your help, I can carry off the Brown presentation _and_ my audition. I really want to surprise Blake for our first anniversary. That weekend will be almost exactly one year to the day since we got hitched in Massachusetts.”

 

“So what is it you’re going to do on AGT?” Cynthia probes. Unable to resist twitting her colleague, she asks, “Are you going to put the audience to sleep by showing them how to keep a ledger?”

 

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Ted rolls his eyes but is nonetheless amused by the blonde’s taunt. Lowering his voice, so that the Cynthia practically has to press her forehead against Ted’s to hear him, he reveals, “I’m going to sing an aria.”

 

Definitely not her cup of tea, but Cynthia presumes Blake will be thrilled. Ted is easy on the eyes, looking more distinguished every year, the slightly graying hair at his temples adding to his charm. And, emulating Brian, he now wears Armani as if he came out of the womb dressed that way, so he should also have the ladies in the audience swooning.

 

Belatedly realizing that Ted is eagerly waiting for her reaction, she prompts, “Huh. That’s your big secret?”

 

“Part of it.” Ted’s voice drops to a whisper, freaked out that one of his coworkers might somehow overhear, even though his office door is closed. “Did I tell you that I ran into Justin at Emmett’s house a couple months ago?”

 

“No,” Cynthia responds curtly, getting bored. She’s fond of both men, especially Justin, but how can Ted consider this tidbit to be of interest?

 

“Hear me out,” Ted urges, as Cynthia shifts restlessly in her chair. “Both of them were kvetching about the lack of romance in their lives.”

 

“Yeah?” the blonde yawns conspicuously. _Romance_. Blech.

 

Before he loses Cynthia’s attention entirely, Ted rushes on, “Justin didn’t outright say it - not to me, at least - but he gave me the impression that he misses Brian, that he wishes they were still together.”

 

Sheesh. How long is it going to take Ted to get to the point? “So?” Cynthia prods.

 

“So I want to get them back together,” Ted snaps out.

 

“Them who?” Cynthia questions. “Justin and Brian?”

 

Ted nods in the affirmative.

 

“ _You’re_ going to play matchmaker?” Cynthia scoffs.

 

An affronted Ted retorts, “Why not?”

 

“Well, okay,” the blonde concedes, “you may be able to persuade Justin to go along with whatever cockamamy scheme you’re cooking up, especially if he is actually hankering after Brian. But our boss? No way.”

 

“Not without your help,” Ted grits out, irritated that Cynthia is blowing him off. Sighing deeply, he wonders if this is worth pursuing. Maybe he should just give up.

 

As Ted’s shoulders sag, Cynthia realizes just how important this is to her friend and mentally kicks herself for being such a bitch. “Ted,” she apologizes, “I just broke up with the latest in a long line of jerks that I’ve dated. When you mentioned _romance_ , it grated on my nerves.”

 

“I don’t know if you’ll ever find ‘the one’, Cynthia, but you shouldn’t give up on romance.” Ted insists earnestly. “It took years before Blake and I were ready to commit to each other.”

 

“Pigs do sometimes fly,” Cynthia grants. “Brian did propose to Justin, so maybe the right straight guy will come along for me.”

 

“Exactly!” Ted declares, beaming at his colleague.

 

Dismissing the likelihood of finding Mr. Right, Cynthia concentrates on what Ted wants to accomplish, wryly inquiring, “Just how do you intend to bring about another miracle for those two bull-headed men?”

 

“Uh, I also want to get Emmett back together with Drew Boyd,” Ted shares instead of answering her question. He only has a half-baked strategy so far.

 

Cynthia guffaws, “Oh, well, what’s one more miracle while we’re at it?”

 

“That’s the spirit!” Ted smirks at his colleague. “I don’t mean to go all Pollyanna, but I want my friends to be as happy as I am. And, truly, I’ve never seen Brian happier than when he was with Justin. The same for Em and Drew.”

 

“I’ll have to take your word in regard to Emmett and Drew, since I didn’t have enough opportunities to observe them together.” Cynthia notes. "No question, though, that you’re right about Brian and Justin - at least from the way our boss behaved during that on again, off again roller coaster ride.”

 

“Plus, we’ll reap the benefit,” Ted stresses, “of Brian being _much_ more congenial around the office when all is well between him and Justin.”

 

“Yeah, he’ll only fire you twice a week instead of every day,” Cynthia jokes, before cautioning, “If we do this, we’d better be damned careful to keep it on the downlow. Brian will fire both of us if he finds out we’re meddling in his love life.”

 

Ted blenches at the thought of how matters could go awry, but he forges ahead anyway. “I only have a nebulous plan so far,” he sheepishly admits, “but I’d like to have as many of the Liberty Avenue family as possible in Chicago for my audition.”

 

“And still keep it a surprise?” Cynthia ponders doubtfully.

 

“If I can get Leo onside, yes.” Ted asserts. “Um, speaking of Leo . . .”

 

“He’s suddenly gay friendly,” the blonde interrupts before Ted says anything further.

 

How does she know that? Was she listening at Brian’s door? Ted doesn’t quite dare accuse her of that, though. Cyn might retaliate by kicking him with one of her cherry red Louboutin stilettos. The CFO shivers as he pictures that spiked heel getting lodged in his ass.

 

Reading his mind, the blonde hisses, “For fuck’s sake, Ted, I didn’t eavesdrop on your conversation with Brian.” When he glares at her in frustration for not revealing her source, Cynthia demands, “Don’t be a dolt; it doesn’t become you. I’m the COO of this firm; of course, I know the salient points for every campaign.”

 

Flushing profusely, Ted gets them back on topic. “If Brown’s sincere about targeting the gay market, there must be a way to tie that into getting the family to Chicago that weekend,” he muses.

 

“Ugh. I wish we could pick Brian’s brain,” Cynthia grumbles when nothing occurs to her in the next ten minutes. All she has done is doodle on a notepad.

 

“Let’s consider the other things we need to put in place,” an equally empty-handed Ted suggests.

 

Cynthia tips her head in assent.

 

“I figured I’d ask Justin to work on the set design for my audition,” Ted divulges. “I’ll go ahead and fill him in, too - make him the third player in our conspiracy.”

 

Deep in thought, Cynthia taps her Mont Blanc ballpoint against her lips, “Good idea. We need all the help we can get, and he won’t blab to anyone.” She then recommends, “What if we also contract with Justin to prepare the boards for the Brown campaign - both the TV commercial and the print adverts?”

 

Ted concurs, “He freelances for Kinnetik on occasion, and I’ll be conferring with him anyway. As a bonus, it would free up the art department to work on other projects.”

 

“And Brian could focus his bellowing on them,” Cynthia snickers.

 

“Yes, let’s keep ‘Rage’ out of our hair,” Ted echoes.

 

“What’s next on our list?” Cynthia inquires, now that they’ve discussed Justin’s part in their plans.

 

“Drew Boyd,” Ted sighs. “I really don’t know him all that well.”

 

“Hmm,” Cynthia mulls it over, “if Leo really wants into the LGBT market, it could go a long way as a goodwill gesture to rehire Boyd for the new campaign.”

 

“So, we’ll wait until we talk to Brown Athletics on Sunday,” Ted decides, “and suss out Leo’s plans. Then I’ll know whether I can approach Boyd on behalf of the campaign and, of course, sound him out about Emmett.”

 

Cynthia makes an assenting noise and jots down a note.

 

“Crap,” Ted suddenly blurts out, “who’s playing in the Super Bowl anyhow?”

 

Cynthia stares at him incredulously before doubling over in laughter. When she straightens up in her seat, moisture seeping from her eyes after laughing so hard, she chokes out - through another bout of merriment, “How can you not know? You like to stare at a gorgeous bum in skintight pants just as much as I do.”

 

“True, but I don’t have to know which teams are playing to do that,” Ted splutters. His face is so hot from embarrassment that he feels like he needs a fire extinguisher to put it out.

 

“You’d better find out which team Leo favors, the New England Patriots or the New York Giants,” the chuckling woman recommends, “before we talk to Brown Athletics.”

 

“But you know the teams,” Ted pleads, beseeching her with a mournful look. Alas, it’s to no avail.

 

“What? You want me to take care of everything?” Cynthia protests, throwing her hands up in the air in feigned disgust. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

 

“I do need to practice my arias,” Ted drily ripostes.

 

“Save those for the shower, for now anyway,” Cynthia drily advises.

 

That sends them into a giggling fit, after which the financial and operational geniuses buckle down and begin preparing for their first consultation with Brown and his staff on the thirteenth of January.

 

“Cynthia, enough for now,” Ted calls a halt two hours later. “Could you get on the horn to Justin right away? After you sound him out about Brown Athletics, patch him through to me to talk about the stage set, okay?”

 

The COO signals her agreement, pondering how best to phrase the requests as she strides down the hallway to her own office - the artist’s participation is critical to both endeavors. She then punches Justin’s number into her speakerphone . . .

 


	2. Interlude

**_NYC, Justin’s studio, 10 January 2008_ **

 

On this dismal Thursday afternoon, with the leaden sky outside his studio windows presaging an imminent snowfall, Justin is standing in front of an easel, flourishing a paintbrush in his right hand and chewing on the nail of his left thumb. His t-shirt is so splattered with paint that it’s impossible to tell what color it was originally. More paint splotches decorate his khakis and tennis shoes, one of which has a gaping hole near his big toe.

 

He stares at the image in front of him in consternation. Sure, others would probably see a reasonable facsimile of Brian, but to the artist, it lacks the vibrancy which normally springs forth under his paintbrush or pencil. It’s simply . . . blah, in contrast to the series of pictures he has just finished for an upcoming exhibition. He’s confident that his latest work is really good, but that doesn’t help him overcome the mental block in regard to his onetime lover.

 

Glowering some more at the dull representation of Brian on his easel, the blond thinks about their relationship after he first moved to New York. They used to talk almost every day, webcam and phone sex tiding them over until they could see each other again. Whenever they did meet, it was incendiary. They wouldn’t emerge from the loft, Justin’s cockroach-infested apartment, or a hotel until it was time for one or the other of them to depart.

 

It has been eight months since they’ve actually been together and two-and-a-half months since Justin last caught a glimpse of Brian.

When Brian shut him out and stopped answering his calls eight months earlier, Justin tried to figure out why he would do that. He couldn’t believe Brian would revert to his old habits, pushing him away without explanation. Two weeks later he flew to Pittsburgh, as had been previously arranged between them, only to find the loft empty.

 

Worried that Brian’s cancer had returned and that his lover was foolishly shutting him out for that reason, he dropped by Red Cape Comics. Michael was his usual cheerful self, however, under the impression that Brian and Justin were vacationing somewhere together. The blond then headed over to Kinnetik, catching Ted in his office. In response to Justin’s distress, Ted reassured him that Brian had been cancer-free as of his last checkup. When he revealed, though, that Brian was vacationing in Ibiza, he had to face the truth. Brian had, indeed, given up on them.

 

Justin tried to contact Brian numerous times over the following month, finally giving up when none of his calls or emails were returned. At that point, he was utterly pissed off. Once more, Brian had determined the fate of their relationship, without talking to him. After everything they’d gone through, it was the end for Justin.

 

He didn’t see Brian again until October of 2007, when he flew to Pittsburgh the day before Molly’s seventeenth birthday and decided to walk around Liberty Avenue, as he’d once done as a seventeen-year-old. There, he saw Brian leaning against a lamppost outside Babylon - the very place where he’d first approached Justin - smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance. Justin hesitated, imagining himself walking over and asking, “How’s it going? Had a busy night?” A combination of anger at the way Brian had shut him out and fear of another rejection kept him from doing so, however. Instead, he turned away, got into his mom’s car, and drove back to her house. The day after his sister’s birthday celebration, he returned to New York, no closer to resolving things with Brian.

 

It wasn’t until Emmett visited him in New York - only a week ago - that Justin finally learned the truth behind Brian’s motives. The brunet had apparently confided in his best friend during a recent pot, pizza, and beer gabfest. Michael shared the information with Emmett, knowing his friend had plans to visit Justin in New York.

 

Justin is still upset, trying to process what Emmett told him. But most of all? He is pissed at himself for giving up on his fucked-up, contrary, mulish partner. Hell, they would be married if Justin had not chosen to call it off.

 

When his phone rings, Justin welcomes the interruption to his pensive thoughts. He finds himself futilely wishing that it’s the brunet on the other end, deliberately not checking the caller ID. This gives him a couple more seconds to dream. “Hello,” he intones flatly, unable to summon the energy to sound cheerful.

 

“Justin,” a woman’s voice issues from the cell phone speaker, “is everything okay?”

 

“Uh, yeah . . .” the artist scrambles to reply before trailing off, wondering who the fuck is on the other end. Of course, he’s the idiot who didn’t check before picking up.

 

“It’s Cynthia,” the caller identifies herself.

 

“Uh-huh?” he replies uncertainly.

 

“Ted and I could really use your help,” Cynthia states briskly.

 

Something for Brian? the blond can’t help hoping, although he knows Brian would never let Cynthia contact Justin on his behalf, not in regard to something private.

 

“It’s for Ted,” she clarifies, dashing his hopes.

 

Justin really likes Ted, who he has gotten to know a bit better over the years, with Ted preparing his taxes annually and saving him the trouble of doing his own bookkeeping. He’s also cut Justin’s checks for the freelance projects Kinnetik has sent his way. Forcing some enthusiasm into his voice, Justin offers, “Of course, I’ll help. What can I do?”

 

Cynthia sounds rather contrite as she imparts, “The timelines are really tight. Kinnetik is preparing a presentation for Brown Athletics, and we need the prelims this Sunday, January 13th. The art department is maxed out, and I think Murphy may walk if we give him one more ‘special project’.

 

“I’ll bet the tirades from Kinnetik’s CEO aren’t helping,” Justin sympathizes.

 

“Some things never change,” Cynthia agrees with a wry chuckle. “So, you’re game?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll do it,” Justin informs her. “Anything else?”

 

“Actually, yes,” Cynthia confirms. “Ted also hopes you can prepare a backdrop for an upcoming event.” Her voice takes on an amused, upbeat note as she concludes, “But he won’t need that until Friday, the 25th of January. So, you know, oodles of time to take care of that _little_ project.” The stress she places on the word ‘little’ makes it sound anything but.

 

Justin snorts, admiring the way Cyn has made it seem as though whipping out the boards for Brown will be easy in comparison to the mysterious project for Ted. He knows better but enjoys her wicked sense of humor nonetheless. For the next twenty minutes, they discuss the specs Cynthia and Ted have in mind for the prelims, with the COO assuring Justin that details have been emailed to him.

 

After his stomach emits a thunderous rumble that he’s certain Cynthia has heard, he cheekily inquires, “Are you having food and coffee delivered from the Liberty Diner to  keep me going?”

 

Cyn declares, “Oh, we can do better than that. I’ve already put in an order with your neighborhood Golden Arches.”

 

The artist is still laughing ruefully as she transfers him to Ted. He should know better than to think he’ll ever get the best of that woman; she’s sharp as a tack.

 

“Justin!” Ted’s voice resonates in his ear, the man’s excitement palpable. “Thanks so much for lending a hand on such short notice,” he gushes.

 

The blond is a bit taken aback, unused to such exuberance from Ted, but he can feel his mood improving. “Glad to help,” he sincerely replies, his lips curving into a smile.

 

“Listen, Justin,” Ted discloses, “I originally intended to keep this a secret from everyone except Cynthia, but part of my plan hinges on your full cooperation.”

 

Like Cynthia earlier in the day, Justin is becoming intrigued. “Yeah?” he solicits more information.

 

By the time Ted has finished explaining his plans, Justin believes that he and Brian have a real chance to reconnect, _if_ he can get the man to listen to him.

 

The blond chuckles weakly when Ted accuses, “Both of you are stubborn fools. You should have figured out by now that you belong together.”

 

“Huh, why don’t try that line on Brian?” Justin dares the accountant.

 

“No, thank you,” Ted wryly replies, “I value my hide too much for that. As it is, the boss’ll fire me if he finds out about this crazy scheme of mine.”

 

“I’ll get the artwork for both projects done on schedule,” Justin promises. “As far as the other, well, we’ll have to see what happens.”

 

“Thanks, Justin,” Ted warmly acknowledges before ringing off.

 

Grateful for this chance, the blond resolves that he won’t leave Chicago before confronting his former lover. No matter what, Brian is going to listen to him this time.

 

* * *

 

**_Kinnetik, Sunday, 13 January, 2:30 p.m._ **

 

“These prelims look pretty good,” Leo booms, “but I think we need more star power.”

 

“Star power?” Ted echoes blandly, struggling not to grimace. The first video conference about the campaign has just gotten underway, and Brown already wants a major change.

 

Cynthia kicking his foot jolts Ted out of his momentary fugue, as does the ‘Drew’ she has jotted down on a piece of paper, shoving it toward him.

 

As Ted opens his mouth to take advantage of the opportunity that has just been handed to them, Brown’s marketing director preempts him, firmly stating, “We want Drew Boyd. He’ll be well known to the Super Bowl audience-”

 

“And he’s popular in the gay community,” Brown interrupts his employee.

 

Ted smiles to himself, pleasantly surprised that Kinnetik won’t have to suggest Boyd for the campaign. Brown must’ve had a genuine change of heart.

 

Staring directly into Leo’s eyes, Cynthia warns, “Mr. Boyd won’t come cheap, not after you insisted that Brian drop him from a ready-to-run campaign four years ago.”

 

The sporting goods tycoon evenly returns her gaze, admitting, “I behaved like a homophobic prick back then. Drew Boyd bears some responsibility, though, since he blindsided me - and everyone else - with the announcement that he was gay. I had to institute immediate damage control measures.”

 

Ted swallows hard, before reminding Brown, “You must have known when you switched from Vangard to Kinnetik that we’re a gay-friendly firm.”

 

“I did,” Leo concedes, “but I also knew Kinney was - and is - an advertising genius as well as an astute businessman. He no more wanted to lose revenue than I did.”

 

Ted quirks an eyebrow, assessing Brown skeptically. True, Brian kept an eagle eye on Kinnetik’s bottom line, but he wouldn’t have fired Drew Boyd, had the sporting goods mogul not pressured him to do so. Regardless of what Brian told Emmett at the time, he’d actually been somewhat sympathetic to Drew’s plight. There had been little room to maneuver, however, per Kinnetik’s contract with Brown Athletics.

 

As the second hand on the wall clock behind him slides along steadily, the accountant declares resolutely, “We’ll be putting assurances in place that Kinnetik won’t lose out financially should you have a change of heart.” Feeling like he’s about to have a heart attack, Ted wipes his sweaty palms off on his slacks underneath the table. Brian will have his head if he fucks up this contract.

 

Leo tips his head in acknowledgement, “I’d expect no less.”

 

“If you want Boyd,  I suggest you to apologize directly to him,” Cynthia recommends, “as well as negotiate terms very favorable to him, should he agree to model your sportswear again.”

 

Ted hastily turns a laugh into a cough as he recalls that the sportswear Drew modeled consisted entirely of men’s briefs, the rest of them standing around in their own underwear to make the footballer comfortable during the photo shoot. He cringes as he remembers the dorky, oversized, bluish-gray boxers he had on that day; Ted binned them the moment he got home.

 

Ted returns to the conversation in time to hear Leo agree, “Perfectly acceptable,” ignoring the restraining hand his marketing director places on his arm.

 

**_Three hours later_ **

 

“I can’t believe it!” Cynthia exclaims after the conference call ends. “Don’t get me wrong, Ted, the idea of using your Liberty Avenue family is brill. How did you come up with that at the last minute?”

 

Sagging in his chair, Ted grunts, “Truly, I wasn’t proposing that the Super Bowl commercial be centered around the family. I just wanted to let Leo know I won’t be available a good part of Saturday, since I’ll be auditioning the night of 26 January. It seemed natural to mention that I hoped many of my family and friends would be in the audience along with my husband. Somehow, Leo grabbed that and extrapolated it into a family pickup football game, all of us clad in Brown Athletics gear, claiming it’s the ‘finest idea Kinnetik has ever had for a Super Bowl ad’.”

 

“Take credit,” Cynthia urges. “Brian certainly would. The two of us were already mulling over how to get the family to Chicago for your audition.”

 

“Yes,” Ted grants, “it should work out perfectly.”

 

“If you can persuade him to join the campaign, Drew Boyd will draw the viewers like flies.” Cynthia admires Brown’s concept. “Leo’s right, you know. It’s going to be a ratings touchdown.”

 

“Kinnetik could come in for flak from right-wing homophobes.” Ted worries, rubbing his fingers across his furrowed brow.

 

“All the attention, good and bad, will have business flooding into the firm,” Cynthia argues. “Brian will finally have to open Kinnetik offices in more locations.”

 

“New York, New York,” Ted whispers dreamily.

 

“Rodeo Drive, here I come,” Cynthia happily murmurs.

 

“So, who gets to contact Justin and tell him the boards have to be completely redone?” Ted asks, shaking himself out of his daze.

 

“I’ll do it,” Cynthia volunteers. She immediately empathizes with the artist, who has to be exhausted after working nonstop on the prelims for two days. “God, when is the kid going to sleep?” she wearily questions, forgetting yet again that Justin’s almost twenty-five; he still barely looks legal.

 

“When are _we_ going to sleep?” Ted moans.

 

Cynthia pokes him the ribs, cackling, “This is _your_ brainstorm, Theodore. Don’t you think you’d better update Brian about the commercial?” she finishes sweetly.

 

“Shoot me now,” Ted begs as he stands up and goes in search of caffeine. He’s going to need a lot of java before he faces the boss.

 

 

**_Kinnetik, Brian’s office, Monday, 14 January, 9:30 a.m._ **

 

After informing Brian about the Super Bowl commercial - and that Leo wouldn’t budge from the caveat that Brian participate in the pickup football game - Cynthia and Ted try not to cringe as Brian turns the air blue, shoving his chair back from his desk so he can pace to and fro. “Did one of you fuckwits put Leo up to this?” he roars.

 

“No, this is Brown’s idea,” Ted insists when Brian stops cursing for a moment. “I do think it’s a great one,” he staunchly declares, somehow managing not to wilt further in his chair as his boss glowers at him.

 

“It’s about as gay-friendly as you can get, on public television at least,” Cynthia quips.

 

In response, Brian grumbles, “Christ, why did Leo have to go all queer PC now?”

 

After ten minutes and a futile call from Brian to Leo, Ted and Cynthia still haven’t a clue why their boss is so set against taking part in the TV ad. At that inopportune moment, Brian’s assistant enters the office, chirpily announcing, “I’ve booked your ticket to Palm Springs on the twenty-sixth.”

 

“Cancel the fucking thing!” Brian demands, sending the woman scurrying from his office.

 

“Palm Springs?” Ted inquires with an innocent look which suggests butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

 

Caught out, Brian mumbles, “There’s a pre-planning event for the White Party in April; I’ve been hoping they’d take Kinnetik on as their advertising agency.”

 

Neither Ted nor Cynthia makes much of an effort to hide their amusement, prompting Brian to grouch, “Don’t you have work to do? Get the fuck out of here.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Kinnetik, Tuesday morning, 15 January, 9:40 a.m._ **

 

Brian nearly takes Cynthia’s head off when she informs him, “I’ve finished making the flight arrangements to Chicago for everyone, boss.”

 

“No fucking way am I traveling with the rest of you clowns,” Brian barks.

 

Unable to get the man to yield, Cynthia heads to Ted’s office.

 

“Don’t worry,” Ted reassures her when she fills him in on Brian’s latest temper tantrum. “I’ve got this.”

 

He immediately picks up the phone and calls Debbie.

 

**_The Liberty Diner, 12:10 p.m._ **

 

“Come on,” Ted insists, taking Cynthia by the arm and pulling her into the diner. “You’ll want to watch this.”

 

Cynthia shrugs and capitulates. Diner fare isn’t her usual, but it isn’t as though she’s never eaten there before.

 

They grab stools across from where Michael, Ben, and Emmett are sitting, Ted telling them that Brian should be there shortly.

 

As Brian slides in next to Emmett a few minutes later, Debbie comes marching toward their booth.

 

Brian complains vociferously, “What’s so all-fired important that I had to be here for lunch, Deb? I’ve a fuck-ton of work to do.”

 

“You’re going to be on the same flight as the rest of us, buster!” the waitress loudly declaims, clouting Brian on the back of the head.

 

“Fucking tattletale,” Brian mutters, glaring at his smirking CFO.

 

“I hear Palm Springs is really beautiful this time of year,” Ted mentions offhandedly, speaking loud enough to ensure his boss will hear him.

 

Brian snaps his mouth shut, not wanting Deb to learn that he intended to go to Palm Springs instead. He doesn’t need another dozen ‘love taps’ to the head.

 

“Fuck, fine, I’ll upgrade to first class,” Brian consoles himself.

 

“No, you won’t,” Deb cackles. “The flight is sold out.”

 

“Bullshit!” Brian contradicts, before glancing toward Cynthia, who’s shaking her head at him in feigned sadness. Brian thinks she looks more constipated than sad.

 

“Who cares about the flight!” Emmett exclaims, beginning to clap exuberantly. “Or the silly football game, for that matter. We get to watch live auditions for _America’s Got Talent_.”

 

“Are you going to keep up your seal impersonation for the next ten days?” Brian drolls.

 

“Don’t be a party pooper!” Deb orders, again slapping Brian upside the head.

 

“Well, aren’t you going to talk some sense into her?” Brian questions Michael, who shakes his head.

 

“No, I value my life,” Michael joshes, before moaning, “Ow! What was that for?” when Deb whacks him too.

 

“Because, Michael Novotny,  it shouldn’t take the threat of physical retribution to get you to support your mother,” Debbie declares with a smirk.

 

Ben interrupts the mother-son banter, “ _America’s Got Talent_ provides an interesting glimpse into a variety of lives at various stages - age, ethnicity, gender identity, career path, relationship status. . .”

 

“Christ,” Brian barks, “do me a favor and can the zen mumbo jumbo.”

 

“Ooh!” Emmett gushes, speaking at the same time, “You like it too.” Motioning between himself and Deb, he claims, “We’ve watched every episode.”

 

Brian rolls his eyes and sighs, “Of course you have.”

 

* * *

 

 

**_Kinnetik, Ted’s office, Wednesday, 16 January, 2:30 p.m._ **

 

Before flying in from San Francisco to discuss signing a new contract with Brown Athletics, Drew Boyd vaguely remembered Ted as a rather timid, self-effacing individual. The person he’s meeting with now, however, is nothing like that. Ted is urbane, forthright, and in command of their conversation.

 

They’ve been reviewing the draft of Drew’s contract and the campaign for nearly an hour, the footballer asking for details about the photo shoots as well as the Super Bowl commercial. “Are we all gonna stand around in our underwear again?” he half jests.

 

That earns him a withering stare from Ted, who eventually states, “You were a prima donna to work with. I doubt there’s another advertising firm that would have gotten everyone to undress to their underclothes, just to make you feel more comfortable.”

 

Shrugging, Drew concedes, “Yeah, that was pretty much what Emmett told me later on.”

 

“Speaking of Emmett,” Ted interjects, “I’m still upset that you treated my good friend so shabbily.” Glaring at Drew, he recounts, “After you so dramatically announced you were gay, he read Brian the riot act at the gym, trying to persuade him to reinstate you to the campaign.”

 

“I didn’t know he’d do that,” Drew weakly defends himself.

 

“That’s what Emmett does for his friends. He tries to help them no matter what.” Ted retorts. “All he saw was that you were hurting, and he wanted to make it better.”

 

“I know he always had my best interests at heart,” Drew agrees. “He is the one who taught me to accept myself, to be proud of who I am.”

 

“Exactly. And you still dumped him without a second thought,” Ted accuses, “not that he ever blamed you. He is ridiculously empathetic toward those he loves, and he was convinced you needed to let loose and embrace your gayness completely. But you know what I think?”

 

“I have a feeling I’m about to find out,” Drew allows.

 

“I think you were a scared fag who was quite brave to come out. But you were also an egocentric football player who only thought about his own needs. And, again,” Ted emphasizes, “the way you threw Emmett over was pretty shitty.”

 

“You’re right,” the footballer acknowledges, ashamed of having thought only about himself. “I was more concerned about my reputation than about Em.”

 

“Are you still interested in Emmett?” Ted prods.

 

Shamefacedly, Drew reveals, “I tried to put him out of my mind, you know? I was still playing football, and I wanted to minimize the homophobic shit from my teammates so I could enjoy the last couple of years of my pro career. Having a flaming queen like Em around would have made that impossible. Mainly, it’s true, I wanted to play the field and sow my wild oats. I wasn’t ready to settle down.”

 

“And now?” Ted presses, trying to get the measure of this man who retired at the pinnacle of the sport one year earlier.

 

“What I want has changed,” Drew declares. “I’m single - haven’t met anyone who intrigues me as much as Emmett did. Or who is as fucking hot, for that matter. I’d like to get to know him again, to see if it would work out with us.”

 

“Maybe you should drop by this address and see what happens,” Ted recommends, handing Drew a slip of paper.

 

Pocketing the note, Drew rises from his chair. “Thank you, Ted,” he intones gravely as he shakes the CFO’s hand. “I’m glad Emmett has a friend like you looking out for him.”

 

Ted inclines his head toward the footballer in acknowledgment. “Be good to him,” he exhorts.

 

“I will,” Drew pledges.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Outside Oz, twenty minutes later_ **

 

The burly ex-quarterback has been reminiscing about the Ironmen, Pittsburgh, and, especially, Emmett Honeycutt ever since Ted Schmidt called him out of the blue on Sunday, 13 January, and told him that Brown Athletics wanted him back as a model for their products. Meeting with the CFO has only reinforced his desire to reconnect with his ex lover, and he therefore heads straight to Emmett’s workplace after leaving Ted’s office.

 

The gaily painted sign outside the building cheekily welcomes visitors, “Oz . . . it’s not a party without the wizard.” Grinning broadly, Drew pushes open the door and discovers more of Emmett’s universe - the colorful, yet enticingly homey decor perfectly reflecting the man’s style. He pauses and looks around, before hearing a whirring noise coming from the back of the building. Not wanting to wait any longer, he walks through a door leading to the kitchen.

 

There he is. Emmett Honeycutt, a frilly pink apron around his waist, a sparkly, floral mesh hairnet over his head, holding a whisk. He vigorously beats what looks like whipped cream, before carefully transferring it onto yellow filling in a cupcake-like pan and swirling it into decorative peaks. He is adorable.

 

Taking a deep breath, Drew hesitantly inquires, “Are you ready for me to turn twenty-one?”

 

Emmett whips around so suddenly that he knocks the tray of lemon meringue tarts off the counter with his elbow. “Drew,” he croaks, so shocked he can’t say anything else, oblivious to the mess surrounding his feet.

 

 

Emmett almost thinks he’s imagining things. It’s as if his conversation with Justin a couple weeks ago has conjured up his old flame. This must be the real thing, though, since this version of Drew is a little older, fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and gray peppering his short brown hair.

 

As he continues to study Drew in silence, Em wonders just who Drew Boyd thinks he is. The _nerve_ of the man to just waltz in here and expect . . . what, exactly? For Emmett to fawn all over him like a ditzy southern belle? No fucking way.

 

“Did you forget how to use that little old thing Alexander Graham Bell invented?” he inquires cooly.

 

“I know I should have contacted you before now,” Drew blusters, looking mighty uncomfortable as he shifts from foot to foot.

 

“Yes, if you valued me at all,” Emmett nods. “I encouraged you to play the field as an out and proud gay man - as you clearly yearned and needed to do - but I didn’t expect you to forget that I was your friend.”

 

“You’re right,” Drew admits. “I’m so fucking sorry. What can I do to prove to you I mean that?”

 

The man looks so contrite that Emmett almost caves in. He holds up a hand to forestall another apology. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

 

Drew immediately declares, “You’re wrong,” crunching his way across the meringue and kissing Emmett before he has a chance to protest.

 

Emmett is stunned by the man’s gesture, so stunned in fact, that he doesn’t respond immediately. But this is Drew. His Drewsie, the man he thought to be the one. So, he gives in and kisses him back, realizing he wants the quarterback just as much as the day they parted.

 

When they come up for air, Emmett sputters, “I . . . I’m still not sure-”

 

Cutting him off, Drew kisses him again, even more fervently than before. Once their lips part, he breathes out, “I’m never leaving you again, no matter what you do.”

 

“Is that a promise?” Emmett inquires, a smile slowly taking shape on his face.

 

“Damned right it is,” Drew growls.

 

Maybe being part southern belle isn’t so bad Em muses, his smile growing as he reels Drew in for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Brian’s loft, 17 January, 3:30 p.m._ **

 

Brian has overheard Ted and Cynthia giggling like a couple of schoolgirls while they’ve conferred about Brown Athletics, and he’s almost let fly with the snark more than once. But, what can he really bitch about? There have been no complaints from Leo Brown or his execs and, in comparison to Brian, they seem to be progressing rapidly with that critical, multi-million dollar account.

 

Earlier this afternoon, Brian decided that no ideas were going to materialize from the walls of his office, so he headed for the loft to search for inspiration in the ganja. He takes another toke, glaring at the photos for a new account, The Man’s Man, that litter the coffee table in his loft. The client wants Kinnetik to promote their line of tuxedo underwear, but he has yet to come up with a single workable idea for the bowtied monstrosities. He briefly amuses himself by comparing the top-quality athletic underwear Drew Boyd once modeled for Brown Athletics to the bottom-feeding Man’s Man product.

 

 

“Can’t use ‘Eat the meat.’ Been there, done that,” Brian declares to the empty loft. Plus, hetero women wouldn’t want to ‘eat the meat’ hidden under those tacky things.

 

He’s certain no self-respecting gay man would be caught dead in these briefs. Brian snickers as a vision of Ted in baggy boxers invades his mind. Fuck, these are even worse than those fugly things his CFO had on during that photo shoot years ago.

 

 

No, not even Ted in his dowdy days would have worn these. Brian heaves out a sigh before declaiming, “Beat the meat.” Nah. Unlike ‘Eat the meat’, it’s a little too vanilla. Unless there’s a certain blond involved, that is.

 

Brian’s thoughts drift to plain tighty whities and from there to one of the most perfectly proportioned asses he’s ever seen. The other side was nothing to sneeze at either. Especially when it was in his hand. Down his throat. Up his . . .

 

Brian squirms on the sofa and tries to think about something else. It doesn’t work, the many permutations of Sunshine’s smile invading his mind. Right now, he envisions the blond’s lips curving in a sly smile as he laves his way up Brian’s cock, his fingers teasing at the brunet’s entrance. Fuck, maybe he should give that ‘Beat the meat’ slogan another try.

 

Ten minutes later, divested of all his clothing, Brian stands up and saunters over to the window in his bare feet. Time for another slogan. Swiveling his hips, he spouts, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Trite but it might work. It would appeal to the small man’s ego, as well as the woman who wants to stroke ‘it’.

 

More memories of Justin niggle at Brian’s mind. Not just salacious ones. His body curled around Justin’s. His head resting on Justin’s chest. The two of them laughing at a silly joke.

 

The brunet speculates for the umpteenth time that he may have acted too precipitously in ending his relationship with Justin months ago, that he should have given his partner a chance to explain. But what’s done is done, no point in dwelling on it.

 

Brian wishes he could ask Justin his opinion about this account, but he can’t. Sure Justin still works for Kinnetik from time to time, but the brunet has avoided all direct contact with his ex for the last few months. It would have been easier to sever all ties and stop sending him the occasional freelance job, but remembering how Justin worked three or more jobs just to make ends meet when he first moved to New York, Brian can’t let that happen.

 

Rapid knocking on the door to the loft and a young boy calling, “Daddy! Are you there?” jolt Brian out of his introspective funk. He snags his jeans from the floor and pulls them on, grateful yet again that Lindsay and Melanie only stayed in Canada for fourteen months before moving back to Pittsburgh.

 

Sliding open the door, Brian greets Gus with a lopsided grin and, “Hey, Sonnyboy,” wrapping an arm around the gangly boy’s neck and roping him in for a hug.

 

Fuck The Man’s Man tuxedo underwear account. Some things are more important.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Kinnetik, Friday, 18 January, 8:00 a.m._ **

 

Brian pulls The Man’s Man file out of his briefcase and calls in his assistant to take it down to Murphy in the art department along with some other items.

 

Murph accepts the stack of folders from Brian’s assistant and discovers ‘Taylor?’ scribbled in red ink on a post-it atop The Man’s Man file.

 

A few minutes later, Murphy sticks his head into Cynthia’s office, asking, “Do you have a moment?”

 

“A moment is about all I do have,” the rather frazzled blonde replies as she reads the latest email from Brown’s marketing director.

 

“I just wanted to ask if you could contact Justin about doing the artwork for The Man’s Man account as well as for Brown Athletics.” Murphy requests, handing the folder to Cynthia and pointing to the post-it on the cover.

 

“Uh, okay, sure,” Cynthia flounders, caught off guard by the request. Shit. Justin will have to fit it in somehow.

 

“Thanks, Cyn,” Murphy responds. “We’re really snowed under, what with two of my artists out with the flu.

 

Cynthia sighs, picking up her phone as the art director exits her office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Saje for coming up with the perfect name for Em’s business!
> 
> If you'd like to see all the chapter graphics, please visit Kinnetik Dreams, www.kinnetikdreams.com.


	3. It's All in the Presentation

**_Ted and Blake’s house, Wednesday, 23 January, 9:10 p.m._ **

 

Ted enters his home to strains of Puccini’s La Bohème wafting from the stereo; a candlelit table on which chafing dishes with baked salmon, asparagus, and new potatoes are gently steaming; and Blake dipping and swaying to the music, oblivious to Ted’s arrival.

 

As he watches his partner, Ted feels the stress from the last couple of weeks dissipating. He drops his briefcase onto the floor, before shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the couch. Then he steps forward, and with a gallant bow asks, “May I?” Receiving a beaming smile in reply, Ted begins whirling Blake around the room, until they collapse onto the couch ten minutes later.

 

“What’s all this about?” Ted queries, sweeping a hand toward the table.

 

Gazing at his partner fondly, Blake reaches out to caress his face, running his thumb across Ted’s lips.

 

Ted places a kiss on the tip of Blake’s thumb as he waits for an answer.

 

“To tell you how proud I am of you. To show you how much I love you.” Blake murmurs.

 

“I’m so lucky to have you in my life,” Ted vows, looking into Blake’s silver-blue eyes, which are shining with emotion.

 

They don’t move from the couch for a long time, gradually divesting each other of their clothes, placing tender kisses on the skin that is revealed, Ted slowly pushing into his husband, both of them groaning in pleasure as he rocks in and out. When he can’t hold back any longer, Blake cries out in ecstasy and spills between their bodies. Ted plunges in twice more, grunting in wordless pleasure, before collapsing on his husband’s chest.

 

A bit later, having cleaned up and pulled on matching bathrobes, they relax over dinner. Once they’ve finished eating and are sipping their lemon-flavored Perrier, Blake pulls out a small black box decorated with a silver ribbon and presents it to Ted. “Go on,” he urges his partner to open it.

 

Ted gasps in amazement when he removes an elegant set of platinum cufflinks with golden-yellow stones in the center.

 

“They’re yellow tourmalines,” Blake discloses. “I searched until I found a stone that matches your beautiful amber eyes.”

 

Ted leans over and captures Blake’s lips in a loving kiss, enjoying the rasp of his husband’s close-cropped beard against his skin.

 

When their lips part, Blake attests, “One of the reasons I’m proud of you is because you’ve been drug-free for five years. If your meetings with Brown Athletics prove difficult, touch these. That’ll remind you that if you’ve beaten addiction, you can do anything.”

 

Ted hopes the gift he has planned for his husband will mean as much to Blake as these cufflinks do to him.

 

* * *

 

**_Brown Athletics’ headquarters, Leo Brown’s office, Friday, 25 January, 2 p.m._ **

 

As Brown’s executive assistant ushers Ted into the luxurious, top-floor office, Leo rises from his chair and welcomes him, “Ted, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

 

Unaccountably nervous given the frequent videoconference and phone calls between them over the past two weeks, Ted rasps, “The pleasure is all mine,” clasping the hand that Leo extends. He wishes Cynthia were with him at this meeting, but they decided one of them should remain in Pittsburgh to shepherd the extended family onto the plane, at least those who weren’t flying in from elsewhere.

 

The two men chitchat for a few minutes, while Leo’s assistant places cups of freshly-brewed coffee and an assortment of cookies in front of them. They gradually enter into an intense debate about filming the Super Bowl commercial on Sunday.

 

“I’m going to be half persona non grata with most of my family and friends for making them freeze off their asses during the video shoot, and half in danger of being hugged to death for turning them into TV stars.” Ted laughingly protests as he looks at photos of the field where the ‘game’ will take place. Fuck, it looks bitterly cold with that powdering of white atop the grass.

 

“At least there’s no snow in the forecast,” Brown consoles him.

 

“Thank God,” Ted mutters, imagining the chaos that would cause, “fucking queens would have a fit.” He then flushes beet red at having said that to Leo.

 

Fortunately, the man bursts out laughing instead of taking offense. “Bunch of drama queens, huh?” he guesses.

 

“You have no idea,” Ted fervently agrees. That’s not exactly what he was thinking, but close enough.

 

Leo eyes him shrewdly before noting drily, “We have a few queens of our own here at Brown Athletics.”

 

Ted freezes, holding his coffee cup in midair. Is Leo hinting some of his employees are homosexuals? Maybe they were referring to the same kind of queen.

 

“You know, Ted, I quite admire you,” Leo continues.

 

What? Ted almost looks around to see who’s behind him, even though no one else is in the room with them. “Ehm?” he queries encouragingly as he finally raises his cup all the way to his lips and takes a sip.

 

“You’re a successful, out-and-proud, gay man,” Brown elaborates. “You’re the CFO for an advertising firm that has become a major force in the industry. On top of that, you come up with brilliant advertising strategies like the one for the Super Bowl commercial.”

 

“Um,” Ted admits, “it was you that came up with the strategy, Leo, not me.” Shit. He just isn’t made for subterfuge and wishes he’d fessed up sooner.

 

“No,” Leo insists, “you brought up how your ‘gang’ - I think that’s what you called them - represents a true, blended family of gay and straight people.”

 

“That was just because I wanted them here in Chicago for my audition, not because I had them in mind for the commercial.” Ted lays out what actually happened, certain Leo won’t have a very high opinion of him after this. “I was hoping you’d help me come up with a way to get them here and still be able to surprise them with my audition.”

 

Leo chuckles, “So it was me who suddenly had them playing football?” When Ted gives him a chagrined nod, Leo reaches over and claps him on the back. “You’re a rarity, Ted. Honest to a fault.”

 

Ted wants to sink through the floor; Leo must believe he’s an imbecile.

 

After scrutinizing him for a few seconds, however, Leo sums up, “Like I told Brian, you’re an asset to Kinnetik. You’ve just confirmed that my request to have _you_ liaise with Brown Athletics on all future campaigns is the right one.”

 

* * *

 

_**New** _ **_York, JFK International Airport, Saturday, 26 January, 9:20 a.m._**

 

Justin collapses into his seat in first class, certain he’ll start screaming if he ever sees a pair of those hideous tuxedo briefs up close and personal. Creating the boards for that butt-ugly - make that dick-ugly - underwear was more trouble than Ted’s set design and the artwork for the Brown Athletics’ ads combined. It wasn’t that it took all that much time, but by no stretch of the imagination would he call those ‘bottoms’ _art_. Thank fuck his name wouldn’t actually appear anywhere on the boards.

 

The blond waves away the buff flight attendant when he offers a drink - his eyes promising to provide any other in-flight amenities Justin might desire.

 

“Just wake me when we land ’kay?” Justin mumbles, instantly falling asleep. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so sleep deprived, not even when he was working at Vangard during the day and plastering posters all over the Pitts to take down Stockwell at night.

 

Justin doesn’t catch the disappointed expression on the steward’s face when he turns to attend to other passengers. He wouldn’t have been interested in any case. Two hours later, as the plane begins its descent into O’Hare, Justin jerks awake from a dream in which he’s dancing on the coffee table at the loft, wiggling his ass at a vocally appreciative brunet. He was becoming increasingly aroused until he turned around, causing Brian to cry out in horror, “Sunshine, What’s _that_?” When Justin looked down, he saw a black bowtie protruding from the end of his cock . . .

 

* * *

 

**_The Signature Room at the 95th restaurant, Chicago, Saturday, 26 January, 11:00 a.m._ **

 

As he enters the elegant dining establishment, Ted is still reeling from Brown’s selection of _him_ as the go-to guy for Brown. A host for the restaurant welcomes him to The Signature Room and, after obtaining the name on the reservation, leads him to a table, where Leo is sitting with a younger man. His gaydar pinging, Ted notices that the slender redhead, who looks like he’s no more than twenty, is eying him appreciatively. Although he’s utterly committed to Blake, it’s nevertheless a boost to Ted’s ego to have a handsome young man look at him like that.

 

“Ted,” Brown greets him with a warm smile when he reaches their table, “I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Austin.”

 

Ah, so this is the impetus behind Leo seeing the light and changing his tune about queers, Ted muses.

 

After all of them have placed their orders, Ted admires the view of _The Magnificent Mile_ from their windowside table, Leo and Austin pointing out various attractions. “Your suit’s Armani, right?” Austin asks. “You should definitely check out Giorgio’s store on the Mile. Pieces from the spring line have already started arriving.”

 

Ted smirks, thinking that would suit Brian to a T. If Ted’s plans come off, though, his friend will be squeezing in a certain blond rather than fitting in an hour or three of shopping.

 

He’s about to respond to Austin when the waiter reaches across their table with a bottle of Moët & Chandon and begins to pour champagne into Ted’s glass. “Thank you, but I don’t want any,” he hurriedly intervenes.

 

“Are you sure?” the server questions. “Mr. Brown has selected a particularly fine Nectar Imperial Rosé.”

 

“None for me,” Ted confirms. Once the waiter has filled the others’ glasses and moved away, he turns to Leo and explains, “I do appreciate the gesture, but I’m a recovering addict. I don’t drink.”

 

“My apologies for putting you in this position,” Brown states sincerely. “I had no idea.”

 

“Will it bother you if we imbibe?” Austin kindly inquires.

 

“No, please, go ahead,” Ted urges the other men. “All my friends know I was an addict, so they don’t offer me alcohol. It’s too likely to lead back to drug use.”

 

“It takes a strong man to beat addiction,” Leo remarks. “You’ve given me yet another reason to be impressed with you.”

 

Austin interjects, “Grandad told me I’d like you, that you and the guy you work for have shown him that men can be openly gay and still be successful.”

 

Looking ashamed, Leo confesses, “I rejected Austin when he came out to me six months ago. It wasn’t until he was rushed to the hospital with acute appendicitis and almost died that I reconsidered. Even now, I can’t explain why I thought Austin revealing that he was gay meant that he was no longer the boy I’ve loved since he was born.”

 

“I’ve been lucky,” Ted asserts. “My boss took a chance on me, allowing me to become the best person I can be.”

 

“Is it okay if I ask why you’re auditioning on _America’s Got Talent_?” Austin inquires politely. “Is it part of your success story?”

 

“I’d also like to know,” Leo chimes in, joking, “we don’t want to lose you to Nashville.”

 

Chuckling, Ted assures him, “Never fear. I’m not about to become a country-western star. Or even the new Elvis,” he jests. He isn’t likely to become an opera star either, but that’s not why he’s going to perform.

“I really don’t know much about the show,” Austin states. “What happens if you win?”

 

“This is just the first round,” Ted elucidates, “so the only way to ‘win’ is to make it to the semifinals. While I want to perform well, I don’t expect to make it that far, and I honestly won’t care if I don’t.” He pauses for a few seconds, before professing, “I want to know that I had the guts to do this. For myself. For my husband, Blake. For my friends who have always cared about and supported me, no matter how low I sank.”

 

“You going to let us in on what you’ll be doing?” Leo huffs in feigned irritation. “After all, I’m the one who stipulated that your ‘gang’ has to attend the audition tonight, before we film the Super Bowl commercial tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, give us a heads-up,” Austin eagerly interjects.

 

“Nope,” Ted retorts with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “You’ll have to wait till this evening . . . along with everyone else.”

 

* * *

 

**_The Drake Hotel, Chicago, 1:40 p.m._ **

 

Brian’s still bitching about having been stuck in sardine class, ‘flying the fucking unfriendly skies’ with United as the airport shuttle pulls up in front of The Drake Hotel.

 

Everyone piles out, pointing out their luggage to the bellboy so he can load it onto the cart. All of them except Brian, that is. He claims his luggage, setting it at his feet and flagging down a taxi.

 

“Brian, what are you doing?” Cynthia hustles over to him. “Leo is putting all of us up at this fabulous historic hotel.”

 

Brian glances disparagingly toward the luxury hotel and shudders, before claiming, “The opulent, excessive decor gives me a migraine. I’ll be at the Swissôtel if you need me.”

 

“Fucking obstinate man,” Cynthia mutters.

 

Brian smiles smugly at his fuming COO, while the taxi driver loads his luggage into the truck of the cab. He’s learned his lesson after telling Cynthia that he wanted to fly separately from everyone else. This time, he won’t allow his dastardly employees to foil his plans.

 

Besides, he is actually being truthful about the effect The Drake’s decor has on him. The Swissôtel’s modern ambience is much better suited to his taste.

 

As he climbs into the cab, Brian admonishes, “Make sure you, Lindsay, Melanie, and Gus are ready at 7:25 p.m. My taxi will swing by to pick you up then.” With a jaunty wave of his hand, Brian closes the car door. The rest of the numbnuts, who are supposedly adults, can fend for themselves, as far as he’s concerned.

 

* * *

 

**_Chicago, Auditorium Theatre, Saturday, 26 January, 7:30 p.m._ **

 

In a studio crowded with contestants waiting for the auditions to begin and their names to be called, Ted backs away from the fat, balding man and his obnoxious parrot, which keeps screeching, “Andy has crabs!” At least it hasn't dropped bird dookie on his Armani suit, unlike what just happened to the violin player, who ran cursing to the men’s room. The musician looked vaguely familiar, but Ted couldn’t place him.

 

To calm himself, Ted practices breathing exercises and runs his fingers across the cufflinks Blake gave him two days ago. He can do this.

 

When the parrot squawks again, Ted doesn’t let it bother him. He can’t wait to surprise Blake tonight.

 

* * *

 

**_In a taxi, 7:35 p.m._ **

 

“Cynthia, why the fuck did Leo insist we attend these auditions for _America’s Got Talent?”_ Brian grouses. “I can watch a bunch of queens any day at the Liberty Diner.”

 

“Leo didn’t tell me,” the woman replies wearily for the third time since she, Melanie, Lindsay, and Gus climbed into Brian’s taxi.

 

“God, Brian, give it a rest,” Mel rags, rolling her eyes.

 

Cynthia barely refrains from rolling her eyes too. She’s not actually lying to Brian; Leo made the arrangements with Ted during one of many phone calls.

 

Brian grunts but is then distracted by his excited seven-year-old tugging on his hand and exclaiming, “Look, Dad!” as he points at their destination, chandeliers casting warm, golden light through the arches of the historic Auditorium Building.

 

Christ, but Brian can be such a pain in the ass, and not in a positive, life-affirming way, Cynthia reflects. Getting him to cooperate has been like wrestling with a greased pig; every single thing - from the Super Bowl commercial, to the flight, to the hotel - has been a tussle. And now she’s stuck listening to him gripe, yet again, about attending the auditions.

 

As he steps out of the cab shortly thereafter, Brian contemplates ways to off his CFO. How could sensible Theodore have agreed to this crap? It’s not as if it’s the latest opera sensation . . .

 

* * *

 

**_Inside the Auditorium Theatre, 7:42 p.m._ **

 

As Drew and Emmett walk toward their seats hand in hand, a baseball-capped man in the audience exclaims, “Holy shit! That's Drew Boyd, one-time MVP for the Ironmen. I always thought he got a raw deal just because he had the guts to come out of the closet.”

 

“Isn't that the ‘Queer Guy’ with him?” the petite, raven-haired woman next to him asks excitedly. “You know, the one Boyd kissed on TV?”

 

“It is!” a middle-aged woman two rows in front of them loudly confirms. “It’s so romantic,” she coos, almost swooning. “They're still together.”

 

Emmett feels like he’s walking on air, as he soaks in the attention - most of it approving - and marvels at how many people are craning their necks to get a look at his famous boyfriend.

 

Drew doesn’t even notice the buzz from his fans; the individuals holding out their cell phones, hoping for a selfie with him; or the admirers fluttering their AGT playbills to draw his attention for an autograph. He’s too busy enjoying Em’s wide-eyed delight as his lover takes in the crowd in the palatial old theater.

 

“Where’s Teddy?” Emmett asks, after they take their seats, turning this way and that as he searches for his friend.

 

Blake leans forward from the seat behind Em’s and imparts, “Ted texted me that he’s been delayed. After signing the contract with Brown, he’s ended up spending the day with Leo and his grandson.”

 

“His grandson?” Emmett questions.

 

“Austin recently came out,” Blake clarifies, “and Leo evidently thought Ted would be a good role model.”

 

“Oh, Teddy would be a terrific mentor to a newly minted gay boy,” Emmett enthuses.

 

“I concur,” Blake replies, a proud smile on his face as he waits for Ted to arrive and take the seat next to him.

  


**_7:47 p.m._ **

 

Brian is sitting next to Gus, an empty seat between him and the end of the row. He wonders who it’s for since there’s now standing room only in the theater. As the only one in the entire family who’s not partnered up, he feels out of sorts, lonely, and vulnerable and can’t decide what the fuck he’s doing here. Cursing fate once more for forcing him to attend this farcical event, and considering that Leo Brown - the man responsible for his presence - is nowhere in sight, still doing God knows what with his CFO, Brian figures he can escape for a smoke. He is about to stand up, when a tenor voice that he last heard months ago states, “I believe that seat is mine.”

 

Caught off balance, Brian scowls, rising from his seat and brushing past Justin, his long strides rapidly taking him toward the nearest exit. He forgets all about grabbing his overcoat from the coat check and starts shivering as soon as he’s outside, the wind cutting through his suit jacket. When passersby glare at him, he steps away from the building, muttering about the goddamn Smoke-Free Illinois Act, which just went into effect on 1 January of this year. Fucking Chicagoans are like bulldogs about enforcing it, even in the middle of winter.

 

He’d rather grouse about the anti-smoking laws in public places than think about the blond he left behind in the theater. Even if his ex has been on his mind too fucking often of late, he’s still not prepared to talk to him. It doesn’t look like it’s his lucky day, though, since Justin suddenly materializes in front of him as he raises the lighter to the butt of his cigarette.

 

Brian nearly drops the lighter in shock when Justin reaches out to shield the flame with his hands, the artist’s slender fingers brushing against Brian’s skin and causing the fine hairs to stand on end. A frisson of arousal skitters through Brian’s body, and he has to fight the urge to lean forward and cover Justin’s lips with his own. Instead, he flicks the lighter again, inhaling deeply once the cigarette is lit. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he challenges as he exhales.

 

After charging out of the theater on the brunet’s heels - ignoring the shouts of “Sunshine!” and “Justin!” - the blond quivers with nerves and anger that Brian would dismiss him so cavalierly. He’s also irritated to be turned on just by the proximity to his former lover. But, above all, he is determined to give Brian a piece of his mind and therefore lashes out, “I’m part of this family, too. If you’ve forgotten that, it's _your_ problem, not mine.”

 

“If you want the fucking family, they’re all yours,” Brian mocks. “Just leave me alone.”

 

“Shit, Brian, do you have to make a joke out of everything?” Justin despairs. “ _You_ gave up on our relationship, cutting off all contact, dropping me like I no longer meant anything to you. Who pulls that kind of shit? Huh?” His jaw jutting forward pugnaciously, he steps even closer to Brian as he waits for an answer.

 

Infuriated, Brian tosses the half-smoked cigarette to the pavement, savagely crushing it beneath his boot, before sneering, “I’m not the one who ended things, _Sunshine._ That’s all on you.” He pushes Justin aside for the second time that evening and rapidly strides back toward the auditorium.

 

Justin stands flabbergasted as his ex disappears into the building. That definitely didn't go as he’d hoped, but he’s not giving up so easily. Hastening after Brian, he slides into the seat next to the brunet and is about to speak when the first contestant ventures out, prompting him to close his mouth and avoid making a scene.

 

Brian tenses, fearing that his ex will try to talk again, but Justin remains silent. Strangely, anytime he dares to glance to his left, Justin bestows a  false smile on him. He doesn’t need to be a genius to realize that the blond is pissed about the way Brian has treated him.

The more time passes, the more agitated Brian feels. He wishes Justin would say or do something, just so he would have a reason to leave. But, nothing happens, eventually leading Brian to gripe, “How much more of this shit do I have to endure?” Peering at his Patek Philippe watch - a recent indulgence - he notes that it’s nearly 9:45 p.m.

  


**_9:46 p.m._ **

 

In the wings to the side of the stage, Ted slides his damp palms down his dress pants in an attempt to dry them off before it’s his turn; he’s the last contestant for the night. Tyra Banks gives him an encouraging smile and states “You’re up,” so Ted walks onto the stage to a cacophony of applause, whistling, and ribald comments from the Pittsburgh contingent, who are sitting directly behind the judges. A couple of AGT gofers carry the backdrop and position it behind Ted.

 

“Oh, my God!” It’s Teddy!” Emmett shrieks.

 

The fiery redhead in the front row places a thumb and forefinger in her mouth and emits a whistle that momentarily silences the crowd.

 

“Ma!” Michael tries to shush her, as Cowell shakes his head in an attempt to restore his hearing, before swiveling in his chair and glaring at them.

 

Ben chuckles and advises, “Admit it, Michael. You were just about to whistle yourself.”

 

Beet red at being caught out, Michael shrugs and laughs it off.

 

All three of them wince when Simon Cowell’s hand slams down on the red buzzer. “Fuck!” Deb bursts out, “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

 

“At least the try-outs aren’t televised live,” Ben soothes his mother-in-law. “If this taped audition is aired on television, either the mics won’t have picked up your comment or it will be obscured by NBC.”

 

“Thank fuck,” Michael interjects. “Now, if only I hadn’t inherited foot-in-mouth disease.”

 

Deb reaches over and slaps her son upside the head, cackling, “Count yourself lucky. You got all my best traits, kiddo.”

 

“Ouch!” Michael complains, rubbing his head before granting, “I did come by it honestly.” a sheepish but also happy grin spreading across his face.

 

Family, Ted thinks fondly. Can’t live with them, but _definitely_ can’t live without them. What the heck? He might as well just have fun, he decides, waving at the audience. It’s unlikely that he’ll make it to the next round and, truly, what’s important is showing Blake, the best partner a man could have, how much he loves him.

 

“And you are?” Howie questions as Ted lifts the microphone from its stand.

 

“Theodore Schmidt. Ted,” he clarifies, butterflies once more dancing in his stomach. Fuck but this auditorium is _huge_ , and right now everyone is so silent that he feels like they’d hear a pin drop on the slick surface of the stage.

 

“Tell us a little bit about yourself,” Howie invites. “Why are you here tonight?”

 

Back when he was desperately searching for a job, Ted remembers reading that one should make eye contact to leave a good impression. Starting with Howard Mandel, he looks at each judge and then scans the audience as he introduces himself. “I’m the chief financial officer for a major advertising firm based in Pittsburgh. Opera has always been my passion, but there’s not much call for a singing accountant.”

  


That earns a round of laughter and light applause, which eases Ted’s nerves as he continues, “Opera was never a career path for me - well, except for a brief stint as a singing waiter.” He gestures toward one of the photos on the board behind him, garnering more titters from the audience and an impish grin from Heidi Klum.

 

Gaining more confidence, Ted finishes, “I wanted to prove to myself and my husband, Blake, that I could do this. So this is dedicated to him and to my Liberty Avenue family, especially my friends, Brian and Emmett, for their friendship and support.” He barely stifles a laugh at the appalled look on Brian’s face.

 

Howie asks, “What will you be singing for us?”

 

“Figaro’s aria from _The Barber of Seville_ ,” Ted responds assuredly.

He can’t help wondering why he didn't try this sooner; despite being nervous, he’s having a blast.

 

“Good luck, then,” Howie wishes Ted.

 

Blake grins as the music starts playing and Ted hams it up as Figaro. He’s delighted and amazed that his lover could carry this off without him finding out. All the hours listening to opera with Ted pay off, Blake translating effortlessly. When Ted sings that ‘col cavaliere’ are one of the perks of the job, waggling his eyebrows and gesturing at Blake, it causes most of the audience to zero in on him. Bake just smiles more broadly; he’s more than happy to be _the_ young gentleman that Ted chose as his partner.

 

Emmett has no clue what Ted is singing about but nevertheless beams at his friend’s debonair attitude and delicious baritone. Hah! If Teddy were still vying with Brian for tricks - not that any of them had ever truly succeeded in providing competition for the Big Bad - he’d win this round. “You rock, Teddy!” he shouts, unconcerned that he’s mixing musical genres.

 

Drew’s fingers go numb from how enthusiastically his lover is squeezing his hand. He can’t quite decide whether or not he likes opera, although the tune - he’s forgotten the name - is appealingly lively. He taps the toes of his shoes against the floor and muses that he wouldn’t mind swinging Emmett around to this music.

 

Huh, not bad, Brian thinks. Ted is certainly enthralling the audience, as he sees from looking around the theater. Schmidt had better not be thinking of an opera career, however, no matter how often he fires him.

 

As he listens to Ted, Justin does his best to ignore the infuriating bastard sitting to his right. He’s thrilled with the way the backdrop he created enhances Ted’s audition. Ted looks really good, making the blond wonder what might have happened if he’d met Ted instead of Brian on that long ago night . . .

 

Nearing the end of the aria, laughter dances in the soloist’s eyes as the factotum congratulates himself, “Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo!” Placing his hand over his heart, his expression then turns serious as he looks directly at Blake and proclaims himself the most fortunate of men.

 

Held spellbound until then by Ted’s performance, everyone rises to their feet, applauding wildly. Of the four gobsmacked judges, Mel B is the first to stand, with the others quickly following suit.

 

Emmett jumps up and down, throwing his arms up in his ‘praise Jesus’ move. Deb emits another earsplitting whistle, while a grinning Jen yells, “Bravo, Figaro!”

 

Initially stunned by the standing ovation, Ted quickly recovers his aplomb, bowing toward the audience again and again. He wonders for the first time if he might actually reach the semi-finals.

 

As the applause gradually dies down, Simon sports a wry grin as he drolls, “Well, folks, that's simply operatic genius.”

 

Brian can see the wheels turning in Cowell’s head and speculates as to whether Kinnetik will receive a call from from NBC to promote AGT. That would certainly make this ridiculous reality show more tolerable. Once NBC’s executives have been exposed to Kinnetik’s brilliance via the yet-to-be-filmed Super Bowl commercial, the deal should be clinched.

 

While Brian is lost in his musings, the judges vote, starting with Howie. “Yes!” he states emphatically. “You’ve made me into an opera fan.”

 

Mel B teases, “If you weren’t married, I’d snatch you up in a heartbeat.”

 

“Oh, honey,” Emmett interjects, “he doesn’t swing that way.”

 

The woman swivels around and quips, “Let a girl dream.”

 

As Blake laughs himself silly, Heidi Klum inquires, “Is that a yes?”

 

“Absolutely!” Mel B replies, theatrically fanning herself.

 

“Yes from me as well,” Heidi concurs, slapping her palms down on the table.

 

Ted holds his breath, aware that Cowell is the toughest sell of the four.

 

The audience chants, “Say yes!”

 

Simon drawls, “It would be four yes votes, but . . .” When Cowell pauses, Ted feels like he’s going to faint. Then, however, the judge leans over and slams his hand down on the golden buzzer, announcing, “Your performance merits this!”

 

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” Emmett screams as golden confetti rains down.

 

Ted signals that his family and friends should join him onstage, with Blake the first one to reach him. Gazing adoringly at his husband, he asserts, “This was the best surprise ever, even if I did have to fend off queries from everyone as to where in the heck you were.”

 

“Happy anniversary,” Ted murmurs, as his lips descend onto Blake’s. Long moments later, the amorous kiss shows no signs of ending.

 

Justin stands in the passageway, planning to confront Brian again. While he waits, he observes Ted and Blake and can’t help feeling envious. The two men are so attuned to each other.

 

“Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re here,” Jennifer greets her son, taking him by the arm and allowing Brian to slip past him.

 

Justin watches as his former lover makes his way toward the exit. “Fuck,” he mutters in frustration.

 

“You should make up with him,” Jennifer suggests earnestly. “Whatever you two disagreed about, it has gone on far too long.”

 

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Justin retorts. “Can’t we talk later, Mom?”

 

“I raised you better than that,” Jen chastises. “Congratulate Ted and then you can track down Brian.”

 

“Sorry. You’re right,” Justin mutters, reluctantly following her toward the stage.

 

Brian has almost reached the exit when Deb bars his way, stabbing his chest with a red-painted fingernail. “You’d better not fuck it up this time, you hear me?” she warns, the red curls on her wig bouncing up and down in counterpoint to her voice.

 

Brian looks at her blandly, but then drops the calm demeanor when Debbie jabs him again. “Little Sunshine can take care of himself,” he sneers.

 

“I care about you too, you asshole,” the redhead huffs, her pointy fingernail drilling into his skin. “Any idiot can see that you’re not happy without Sunshine, so you need to fix whatever went wrong.”

 

The brunet eyes Debbie skeptically; undoubtedly, she badgered Michael into relating the sordid tale. “No matter what Justin did, I should fix it?” he half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly asks.

 

“Yes, be the bigger man,” his surrogate mother insists.

 

Brian can’t help snorting at that remark.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Brian, you know what kind of _bigger_ I mean,” she remonstrates, not quite stifling a chuckle.

 

“Yeah, I do,” he acknowledges, his muscles tensing as he thinks about confronting the blond.

 

“Like I said, _do_ something,” Debbie reiterates, finally stepping aside.

 

Brian hurries out the door before she gives him any more unsolicited advice.

 

As his dad makes his escape, Gus punches a fist into the air and cries out jubilantly, “Way to go, Uncle Ted!”

 

Emmett pounces on his friend, bussing him on the cheek and gushing, “Oh, Teddy, you were marvelous.”

 

One arm anchored around Blake’s waist, Ted soaks up all the praise, professing, “I couldn’t have done it without my friends and family.”

 

“I second that emotion,” Deb interrupts, throwing her arms around Ted and embracing him so tightly that he starts to turn purple from lack of oxygen.

 

“Ooh! Smokey Robinson! Diana and her pals!” Emmett shimmies over to Drew, warbling, “Said, if you feel like giving me a lifetime of devotion . . .”

 

If only, Justin wistfully thinks.

 

As she admires Em’s moves, Deb plants a kiss on Ted’s cheek, screeching, “You’re gonna win the whole fucking shebang, Honey!”

 

His eyes twinkling, Blake reaches up and attempts to wipe away the smear of scarlet lipstick. “You never know,” he echoes Debbie’s prediction.

 

Ted doubts it can get much better than this. He glimpses Leo Brown, one arm around Austin’s shoulders, behind his friends. Leo nods and gives him a thumbs up. Not espying either Brian or Justin, Ted hopes the two men are finally talking. Now all that’s left is filming that pesky television commercial.

 

Easy-peasy. Just like herding cats. Ted grimaces as a cartoon image of himself himself trying to corral the others - after they’ve metamorphosed into cats - pops into his head.

  


“You can do it,” he mutters to himself. The man who earned a golden buzzer from Simon Cowell can do anything. Yeah, _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go to Kinnetik Dreams, www.kinnetikdreams.com, to view all the story graphics.  
> Alois ‘painted’ Justin’s wonderful backdrop, so be sure to show her some love in your reviews. <3


	4. Encore

**_Chicago, Swissôtel, Brian’s hotel room, 11:50 p.m._ **

 

Brian is lying on the couch in the lounge area of his suite, ten miniature bottles of Beam lined up on the coffee table in front of him. Only two still contain gold-brown liquid. He toys with his cell phone, keying in the same number for the seventh or eighth time - he’s lost count. As he has done previously, he turns off the phone before he can press send. He deleted that contact from his phone months ago; he has often wished he could as easily remove it from his memory.

 

Grunting in frustration, Brian tosses the phone onto the coffee table and pours the last two bottles into a crystal tumbler. He then lights another Lucky Strike, inhaling the nicotine deep into his lungs. He’s been trying to cut back on the cigarettes, but his musings about Justin have had him chain smoking from the moment he returned to the hotel. If the blond showed up right now, he’s not sure whether he’d slam the door in his face or throw him onto the bed and fuck him.

 

Brian stands up and pads over to the window, his feet and torso bare, his black jeans riding low on his hips, the top two buttons undone. As he gazes down on The Magnificent Mile, he decides he must be a masochist. He hasn’t admitted to himself until this moment that the main reason he insisted on staying at the Swissôtel is because this is where he and Justin spent a few deliriously happy days nearly eighteen months earlier. “Thank fuck it’s not the same suite,” he mutters to himself.

 

Although the interior is darkened at this time of night, he can still pinpoint the Armani store, which he dragged a reluctant Justin into. Brian’s lips curve upward as he remembers shutting up the kvetching blond by feeding him his dick in the dressing room.

 

And there’s the Art Institute of Chicago that Justin dragged him to, with Brian teasing afterward, “No such thing as too many dick pics, Sunshine! I expect to see a painting of mine the next time we visit.”

 

Knocking back the last of the bourbon, Brian broods some more. If only.

 

* * *

 

**_McDonald’s, near the Auditorium Building, 12:03 a.m._ **

 

Justin can’t believe that he has been stuck at this fast food ‘palace’ with his family and friends for the last hour and a half. Cynthia supplied him with the name of Brian’s hotel and his room number, so he purposely lagged behind as the chattering group left the theater, intending to head directly to the Swissôtel. Unfortunately, his plans were foiled as the group wandered along the sidewalk, looking for an open café or restaurant where they could continue their gabfest. Just as the blond raised his hand to hail a taxi, Gus latched onto his arm, jabbering, “Yay! It’s open! Let’s get a Big Mac, Justin!” and towed him into the fast food eatery.

 

The girls left with the over-excited seven-year-old an hour ago, but Justin still couldn’t make his escape, first Michael and then Emmett insisting on telling him something or other. Ted and Blake are billing and cooing at a table in the corner, oblivious to everyone and everything, including the uncomfortable plastic chairs and the horrid, clashing, puke green and bilious yellow decor.

 

“Em,” Justin tries to halt the tale of how two drag queens got into a hair-pulling tug of war at a wedding Emmett catered, but his friend just keeps babbling. “Uh, I’ll see you later,” Justin finally declares, easing out of his seat.

 

“Good luck, Sweetheart,” Jennifer encourages her son as he hastens past her on the way to the door.

 

* * *

 

**_Chicago, Swissôtel, outside Brian’s room, 12:25 a.m._ **

 

Justin raps against the door firmly, forcing himself not to fidget as he waits. When Brian yanks open the door, growling, “What the fu-” the blond’s throat closes up and he can’t say anything. All he knows is that he needs skin-on-skin contact, stat.

 

His outerwear and ubiquitous messenger bag fall to the floor as want surges through him. He steps forward and, standing on tiptoe, grabs fistfuls of chestnut hair and mashes his lips against Brian’s.

 

Brian groans deep in his chest and pulls him closer, slanting his mouth across Justin’s and probing with his tongue.

 

Justin’s tongue duels with the brunet’s, before he sucks hard on that slick appendage.

 

Drawing back slightly, heaving in air, Brian tears Justin’s shirt open. The blond shrugs it off his shoulders while the brunet pushes it upward, till it lodges under his armpits. Enough skin exposed for now, their fingers meet and tangle as they simultaneously attack his belt and zipper. Justin leaves that task to Brian, bathing the brunet’s areolas in saliva, alternately sucking and biting at the nipples.

 

Barely able to concentrate, Brian at last succeeds in unfastening Justin’s trousers, pushing them and the underwear down in one go, before stepping on the crotch of the tighty whities. Justin hops in place until he tugs one shoe-clad foot free of the pant leg.

 

Brian propels Justin against the door, which slams shut behind him. Producing a condom and a packet of lube from his pocket, he pops open two more buttons on his jeans and lowers them just enough to free his dick.

 

Frantic to reconnect with the blond in the best way he knows, Brian tears open the condom with his teeth and unrolls it onto his dick. He fumbles with the lube, the package almost squirting out of his hand as he coats his cock and his fingers. Quickly, he pushes one finger and then another into Justin’s hole. He can't wait to feel the warm passage clamp down on his cock.

 

As Brian rubs against that bundle of nerves, Justin nearly goes ballistic, squirming and moaning for more. He wraps his legs around Brian’s waist, his pants dangling from one foot, clawing at the brunet’s shoulders with his hands, the heels of his dress shoes drumming against Brian’s spine.

 

Bracing his palms against the door next to Justin’s head, Brian pauses, his quadriceps straining, wordlessly asking the blond if he is ready.

 

Justin squeezes Brian’s waist more tightly with his thighs, assenting.

 

Moans, grunts, and growls fill the air as Brian slides home.

 

_Mine_ , Brian snarls inside his head. He has never felt such _need_ with anyone other than Justin.

 

Justin’s head falls back, banging against the door, but he doesn’t notice. He’s lost in sensation as Brian fills him, completes him.

 

Brian rocks in and out in small movements; he can’t shift more than that with Justin’s legs clenched around him. His face tilts down, nuzzling into the spot behind the blond’s ear, and he inhales deeply, before wetly swiping his way down that delectable, pale neck.

 

Reveling in the sting of the brunet’s stubble against his skin, Justin arches his body. So fucking good.

 

Already feeling his orgasm building, Brian knows he won’t last long. Back and forth. And again. He moans, “ _Fuuuck_ ,” into the blond’s ear, wishing this moment would never end as he unloads into the condom.

 

Justin comes mere seconds later, a breathy whine escaping as he spurts between their bodies.

 

Justin’s legs slide off Brian’s hips, only the brunet’s body sandwiching him against the door keeping him upright. But then Brian teeters, and they tumble to the floor in a sated, sweaty heap, Brian slipping out of Justin’s ass. He removes the condom, ties it off, and tosses it over his shoulder. Taking in each other’s dishevelment, the two men begin chuckling. Whitish streaks decorate their chests; their hair is sticking up in unruly tufts; Justin's pants are dangling from one leg, a black sock and scuffed shoe on the other; and Brian’s jeans are scrunched up beneath his bare buttocks.

As his semi-hysterical laughter tapers into sporadic hiccups, Justin sobers quickly. He doesn’t regret what just happened; it was inevitable that his apprehension and anger would instantly transform to lust when the sexy, half-naked brunet opened the door. “Brian,” he husks, propping himself up on his elbow and staring directly into wary hazels, “it’s beyond fucked up that you banished me from your life.”

 

Brian’s eyes drop, causing Justin to heatedly demand, “Look at me, dammit.” When the brunet’s gaze locks back onto his, he declares, “I know why you fled to fucking Ibiza.”

 

His eyes skittering away from that icy blue gaze, Brian thinks that whatever Justin heard through the Mikey grapevine, he can’t possibly know how he feels. Justin’s always the one who leaves, the one who breaks the rules. Half-shrugging, as if indifferent, he intones evenly, “It’s done, Justin. We can’t go back and change it now.”

 

Frustratedly, Justin thumps the back of his hand against Brian’s chest. “You don’t get to simply quit our relationship,” he hisses.

 

“Goddammit,” Brian retorts, his faux calm vanishing, “I’d gone two months without fucking you, without even touching you, and I couldn’t wait any longer . . .”

 

Justin grunts in agreement, remembering his own sexual frustration.

 

“. . . and there you were, outside your apartment building, kissing another guy.”

 

“It didn’t mean anything!” Justin shouts, leaping to his feet. He irritably kicks off his shoes and slacks, pacing across the room before returning.

 

Brian glowers up at the blond in disbelief.

 

Kneeling down next to the brunet, Justin concedes, “Okay, I shouldn’t have kissed him, but he was no one. We met at The Stonewall Inn. This pathetic guy had never kissed a man and was lonely. So, I took pity on him. I mean, thirty-one and no sexual experience? Not even a kiss? There was no way I would have fucked him, but . . . He looked so miserable. I was half drunk, and I made a stupid decision. I closed my eyes, pretended he was you, and demonstrated how to kiss like you really mean it.”

 

Stunned by this revelation, Brian stares at the blond mutely.

 

Justin eyes Brian earnestly, willing him to believe him, but is unable to tell what he’s thinking. He finishes, “It had nothing to do with wanting him. He didn’t taste right, smell right, or feel right. If you’d waited ten seconds longer you’d have heard me tell him to get lost when he asked for more.”

 

Brian opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

 

Agitated, Justin babbles, “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I’d never intentionally hurt you like that. Do you have any idea how much I love you? How devastated I was when you shut me out? How devastated I felt when I realized it was because of that stupid kiss?”

 

Brian closes his eyes and sighs. "You shouldn't have kissed him." he concurs.

 

As Justin studies him, he understands his lover is just trying to make sense of it all, trying to figure out how he could have been so stupid as to react like a betrayed wife. Because that’s exactly what he has done, endorsing such ridiculous behavior. He has acted like those heteros he despises.

 

But even though Justin is now certain Brian has finally accepted his explanation and knows he overreacted, the blond feels the need to agree with him. He should never have kissed that guy, since the only person he wants to kiss is Brian. “I know,” he confirms.

 

Brian rubs his face, muttering, "Fuck. I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet."

 

"I hope you do. You've earned the title hands-down with that queen-out.”

 

Brian offers, "When I saw you with him, I . . . something inside me snapped. I was so fucking angry at you.” He hesitates, and Justin senses that he wants to say more, but the brunet curses instead, “Fuck, I . . ."  

 

From his expression, Justin surmises that Brian is upset with himself but can’t admit it. He proposes, “What if we start with a clean slate?”

 

“I’d like that,” Brian allows, glancing at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

 

“I am,” Justin murmurs as he scoots closer to Brian. “And I’m not leaving. I told you. I love you.You don’t know how tough it has been without you.”

 

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” Brian confesses, wrapping his arms around the blond. “Promise me something . . .”

 

“What?” Justin leans back, gazing at the brunet questioningly.

 

“If I ever act like a Stepford fag again, stop me. Chase me down. Tie me up. Even gag me to force me to listen to you. Just never give up on me.”

 

“I never have,” Justin asserts, poking the brunet in the ribs. “I called you repeatedly, getting shunted to voicemail every single time, you big lummox! I tried emailing. I even searched the Pitts for you.”

 

Brian snorts, “‘Big lummox?’ That’s the best you can come up with?”

 

“You prefer ‘flaming idiot’?” Justin teases, cradling Brian’s jaw and tracing his lips with his thumb, his joy at touching Brian again evident in his gaze.

 

“How about ‘the face of God’?” Brian quips mock-seriously.

 

He’s gonna kill Daphne tomorrow for disclosing that tidbit to Brian, Justin decides. He forgets all about that, however, the moment Brian’s lips touch his. “Mmm,” he hums, thinking maybe he has missed their kisses most of all.

 

How could he have been such a dolt for so long? Brian wonders. Deepening the contact, he reflects that kissing Justin is one of the greatest pleasures he has ever experienced. He bites at the plump lower lip, before soothing it with his tongue.

 

When they take a much-needed break to heave in air, Justin thinks about another thing he’s missed. He pushes the brunet backward, leaving a trail of kisses behind as he navigates his way toward toward that straining cock.

 

Long minutes pass before, mesmerized, he watches his lover come undone, Brian’s ass clamping down on his fingers.

 

As he recovers, Brian notices that Justin’s dick is still rigid. He reaches out to stroke it, but Justin shakes his head. He looks down at the fingers he’s just removed from Brian’s body and wordlessly asks for something else.

 

Brian hooks a hand behind the blond’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss. When their lips part, he nods in assent . . .

 

Later, after another round of carpet sex, followed by a shower fuck, they finally make it to the bed. Justin relishes Brian’s light, wheezing snore as he falls asleep, the brunet’s body spooning him.

 

* * *

 

**_Chicago, Soldier Field, Sunday, 27 January, 11:23 a.m._ **

 

“Christ,” Carl states reverently, “I can’t believe I’m standing on the field where the Chicago Bears play.” His eyes are shining as he takes everything in, oblivious to the cutting wind.

 

“I guess it’s a big deal, huh?” Debbie questions, her teeth chattering as she looks around the gigantic stadium and the tiers of empty seats.

 

“That it is, Red,” Carl responds distractedly, before turning to Leo Brown and vigorously pumping the man’s hand. “Thanks, Leo,” he effuses, “I grew up in Pittsburgh, but my family hails from Chicago. I’ve always been a Bears fan.”

 

Before Leo can reply, Emmett interjects playfully, “Oh, Carl, no! You’re supposed to support the Ironmen.”

 

“I do,” Carl intones gravely, “. . . as long as they’re not playing the Bears.”

 

From the sidelines, Blake chuckles, before turning to his husband and teasing, “I’m not sure about this part of my anniversary surprise.” He swipes at his nose, which is reddened and dripping in the cold air.

 

Fumbling with the football Austin has just thrown to him, Ted professes hopefully, “We’ll warm up once-”

 

Their conversation is interrupted by the catcalls which greet Brian and Justin, who saunter onto the field, not quite holding hands.

 

“We’re fucking freezing our titties off!” Debbie complains vociferously. “It’s about time you boys got here.” The fond expression on her face as she gazes at the miscreants belies her chiding.

 

Michael cringes and protests, “Ma!”

 

“Fine,” Debbie cackles, “you boys can freeze your nuts off.”

 

“We will.” Drew nods good-humoredly. “This place may be famous in the annals of football history, but it’s a fuckin’ nightmare to play on in winter.”

 

Brian ignores the byplay, casually looping an arm around the drowsy-looking blond’s shoulders.

 

“Hard night, boys?” Emmett speculates, his blue-green eyes sparkling mischievously. “You look like limp noodles.”

 

At the outraged expression on Brian's face, Michael hastily interposes, “Everywhere but _there_ , of course!” averting a crisis.

 

Even though his face has gone scarlet, Justin announces seriously, “We couldn’t rush the most historic reunification since Germany.”

 

Ted, Em, and Michael crack up, recalling when Ben used that very phrase, while they all looked down on Brian and Justin dancing at Babylon, their bodies constantly touching.

 

Over the next couple of hours, everyone runs around at the behest of Leo and the film crew, slipping and sliding on the wet grass, often tackling each other with the football nowhere in sight.

 

* * *

 

**_Pittsburgh, Debbie’s house, Sunday, 3 February, 6:10 p.m._ **

 

The din in Debbie’s living room is so loud when Brian arrives that he’s tempted to turn around and walk out. The television is blaring, and it seems everyone is bellering their opinions of the two teams who are about to play, although the only ones who actually know the game and the teams are Drew, Leo, Austin, Carl, and Cynthia. Everyone else is just spouting smack talk, most of them having no clue how to actually hold a pigskin, much less throw or catch it.

 

Fucking Theodore and his bright ideas.

 

The brunet decides he can tolerate family mayhem for a couple hours, however, when he looks down at the blond next to him. Justin dazzles him with one of his radiant smiles, and Brian bends down to claim a lingering kiss. “Play nice,” Justin chides teasingly.

 

“As long as you play with me,” Brian concedes.

 

“If I have to . . .” Justin’s eyes laugh happily up at him.

 

**_6:48 p.m._ **

 

Kickoff happened at 6:32 p.m., and most of the crowd is watching half-heartedly as they wait for the first airing of the ad. It’s slated to be shown a total of three times, including once during halftime.

 

“Fuck, I’m on tenterhooks waiting for the commercial,” Ted confesses. “I’m still worried that NBC will renege and air something else instead.”

 

“Those stodgy bastards didn’t think a live football game was the right place for a ‘gay’ commercial,” Brian reminisces. “They listened, though, when we appealed to their ‘bottom line’.”

 

“Hey,” Leo objects, “I used to be one of those stodgy bastards.”

 

“That’s why they listened to you,” Blake theorizes.

 

“Maybe,” Leo replies. “But, like Brian said, it came down to their bottom line. When I pointed out how many states have homosexual marriage initiatives on their ballots, with a number of them likely to pass . . .”

 

“. . . And the increasing calls nationwide for same sex marriage to become the law of the land,” Ted relates, “they suddenly decided that a queer-friendly ad, depicting a friendly pickup football game, would leave a positive impression on most of their viewers.”

 

“With said viewers ultimately spending some of their disposable income in ways which benefit the NBC conglomerate.” Brian drily concludes.

 

**_7:03 p.m._ **

 

“Oh, there we are!” Debbie shrieks, as the first frame of the commercial appears - Justin falling on his ass as the ball whizzes past him.

 

“Why did I have to be the klutzy one?” Justin groans as his alter-ego stands up, rubbing his posterior.

 

“Because you have so much padding to fall on, Jus,” Daphne twits her friend.

 

A few seconds later, an uncharacteristically shy Hunter mumbles, “Thanks, Leo,” as he watches himself catch a pass from Ben.

 

Tilting his head, Brown inquires, “For?”

 

Hunter sweeps a hand toward the television. “For showing everyone that being HIV positive isn’t the end. That people with AIDS can have fulfilling lives. For including me in your commercial,” he finishes with a boyish smile.

 

The commercial cuts from the game to a discussion of HIV status between Michael, Hunter, and Ben. Michael vehemently declares, “Even though my husband is positive and I’m negative, we still have a vigorous, fulfilling sex life!” He turns crimson when he remembers he’s on camera.

 

Austin seconds, “Yeah, thanks, granddad,” placing a kiss on Leo’s brow and making the older man beam in pleasure.

 

The poignant moment quickly changes to hilarity, as Emmett jumps up and down, screaming, “Touchdown!” slightly in advance of the actual occurrence.

 

In the archway to the kitchen, Ted stands with his arms looped around Blake from behind, grinning at his friend’s antics.

 

On the TV, Drew drops the ball into Emmett’s hands.

 

Em awkwardly wraps his arms around the football and lopes toward the end zone, Drew right behind him. When he halts too soon, shooting an infectious, gap-toothed smile at his lover, Drew pushes him across the goal line.

 

The camera pans to a panting, out-of-breath Brian, who is leaning over with his hands on his thighs, apparently unable to chase down the flamboyant queen.

 

Deb, who’s standing beside the chair where Brian is sitting with Justin in his lap, ruffles Brian’s hair affectionately, murmuring, “Well done, Brian, letting Em have the spotlight.”

 

Brian gives her a tongue-in-cheek grin and doesn’t say anything.

 

“Wow, huffing and puffing like that,” Ted shakes his head in fake concern. “You’re getting old and out of shape, Bri. You’d better visit the gym.”

 

“Theodore, you’re fi-” the brunet predictably growls, but the CFO’s imminent career suicide is delayed when Justin fills Brian's mouth with his tongue.

 

After their lips separate, a slightly breathless Brian briefly worries that Ted is right . . . He must be getting old. He relaxes, though, when he notices Justin is also gasping for air. Hah! He bets Ted couldn’t match that performance.

 

Noticing Brian’s smug grin, Justin jests, “Good boy, playing nice with others.”

 

**_Halftime, 7:52 p.m._ **

 

Everyone applauds as Emmett’s touchdown is televised for the second time.

 

A few minutes later, Drew pulls out his phone which has buzzed to signal an incoming text. His mouth drops open as he reads aloud, “We’d like to talk to you about a coaching job. Call me ASAP. Mike Tomlin, head coach for the Ironmen.”

 

“Oh, Drewsie! Touchdown!” Em yells, flinging his arms around his man and latching onto his mouth for a congratulatory kiss.

 

Brian glances at the blond on his lap and thinks he’s made the touchdown that matters. Not that he’ll ever spout such romantic drivel, of course; he’d rather cut out his tongue. Well, in a moment of weakness, he might tell his lover one day.

 

Justin smiles at Brian. He can guess what the man is thinking since he feels the same way. Softly, so that only Brian can hear, he says, “I’m onto you.”

 

* * *

 

**_Pittsburgh, the loft, four months later_ **

 

It’s been a month since Justin moved back, and he couldn’t be happier. Truthfully, since he and Brian reconnected, Justin sometimes wonders what he’s done to deserve such happiness. Living in New York for almost three years allowed him to establish a reputation as an up-and-coming artist; now he no longer needs to be in the city, chasing down opportunities to exhibit his work.

 

Brian is more open and relaxed than ever before. It has been a year since their falling out, but Justin is now confident they will never grow apart again. It’s a dream come true.

 

Right now, Justin is waiting for his lover to come home. They are supposed to meet up with the boys at Woody’s later, so when his partner calls him to cancel their plans without providing an explanation, Justin is rather puzzled. He nonetheless phones Michael and Emmett to let them know they won’t be at the bar, before lying down on the bed and relaxing.

 

He hears the door open but doesn’t move, as Brian enters the loft and shuts the door behind himself. Justin hears him walking around, probably taking off his suit jacket and tie and draping them across a barstool, maybe chugging some guava juice from the carton. He is surprised when the brunet doesn’t join him immediately, but he’s too comfortable on the bed to make the effort to get up.

 

He doesn’t realize that he has dozed off until he feels the mattress dip as Brian sits down next to him, leaning over to cover the blond’s lips with his own. When the brunet deepens the kiss, Justin shivers in delight, then whimpers a little when his lover straightens up.

 

“Hey,” Brian greets him with a smile that makes Justin’s heart thump.

 

“Hey,” Justin responds, caressing Brian’s neck with his hand.

 

He’s surprised when Brian stands, breaking their connection and demanding, “Get up. I have something to show you.”

 

“I don’t want to get up,” Justin complains.

 

“Believe me, you won’t regret it,” Brian drawls enticingly, before walking down the steps and disappearing from Justin’s sight.

 

Justin grumbles in protest, but when Brian doesn’t return, he forces himself to get off the bed. Rubbing his eyes, he shuffles toward the living room. He stops dead in his tracks, however, when he notices the table, bedecked with flickering candles, plates, silverware, a tossed salad, and a basket with freshly sliced French bread.

 

“Uh, Brian?” he calls out to his lover, who is heating something on the stove.

 

“Yeah?” The brunet replies absently, stirring the contents.

 

Whatever it is, it smells fantastic, Justin realizes, inhaling deeply.

 

“It’s Thai coconut soup,” Brian reveals. “I know you love it.”

 

“I . . .” Justin stammers, astounded that Brian would cook for him. Well, his lover is probably just warming it after picking it up from their favorite Thai restaurant, but still.

 

Brian turns off the burner and dishes the food into shallow bowls, before carrying them and two bottles of Singha beer over to the dinner table. Once he is seated, he peers over at Justin, visibly amused. “You plan on watching me eat?”

 

“Sure,” Justin answers, “but I can do that while I eat.”

 

He slides into the chair opposite Brian, still wondering what’s going on. As they spoon up the tasty concoction of shrimp, shitake mushrooms, and coconut milk broth, Brian looks relaxed at first. Soon, however, the blond figures out that his lover is nervous about something since he keeps fidgeting in his chair.

 

As if to validate his thoughts, Brian stands up as soon as he has finished his meal, retrieving a joint from their private stash before returning to the table. He waves the doobie under Justin’s nose, proclaiming, “This is dessert,” before clarifying, “but we’ll save it for later. Would you stand up?”

 

Justin’s brow furrows, but he shrugs and complies.

 

Brian doesn’t say anything else, just steps closer to the blond, kissing him passionately. Justin is surprised that Brian wanted him to stand just so they could kiss but, as usually happens when Brian claims him, his limbs turn to jello and all rational thought disappears. He no longer cares that his partner is behaving oddly. Getting really turned on, he reaches for the buttons on Brian’s shirt, but the brunet pulls away.

 

Justin opens his mouth to protest when he notices the enigmatic expression on Brian’s face. “What is it?” he asks.

 

“I’ve been waiting a year to give you this,” Brian declares, retrieving something from his jacket pocket. Justin can’t see what Brian is staring at so intently, since his hand hides it. His curiosity is growing as he waits for the brunet to divulge more information.

 

Brian finally gazes up at Justin as he opens his fingers, revealing a small, black box. “Well, technically, I’ve waited three years. I was going to give it back to you that day when we . . . when I snapped. But, obviously, I didn’t go through with it.”

 

“Brian . . .” Justin utters his lover’s name in wonder. The box is the one with their wedding rings, the ones he last saw in the loft three years ago, before departing for New York.

 

“Marry me,” Brian asks as he stares at his lover, before taking him in his arms. “I want you to marry me,” he whispers in his ear.

 

Justin feels his heart pounding. He hugs Brian tightly, before pulling back, inquiring, “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” Brian says simply.

 

Justin’s eyes are shining as he responds, “Yes. Yes!” making his partner smile. “Of course, I will marry you. On one condition . . .”

 

Brian raises an eyebrow, inquiring, “What?”

 

“Promise me that we’re really getting married this time. That nothing and no one will prevent it from happening.”

 

Brian answers Justin’s plea with another mind-blowing kiss.

 

Later that night, Brian rests on the bed, his arms around Justin. As the platinum bands sparkle at him from their box on the nightstand, the brunet envisions himself placing a note on Ted’s desk that states, “Ted, you’re hired.” Not that he’d ever actually do that, of course . . .

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale has now come to an end - I hope you enjoyed the ride. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please go to Kinnetik Dreams, www.kinnetikdreams.com, to view all the story graphics.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments - every single one means so much to me. :)


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